


CT-Skywalker

by Selcier



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy, Star Wars: The Clone Wars (2008) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Day 3: Secret/Confession, I Love(d) You (obikinweek17), Inspired by Mulan (1998), M/M, Secret Identity, i think you all know where this is going..., obikin, obikinweek17
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-19
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2018-11-30 21:48:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11472354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Selcier/pseuds/Selcier
Summary: Fearful that he’ll have to spend the rest of his life stuck on back-water Tatooine, Anakin takes his chances in the Grand Army of the Republic. While impersonating a murdered Clone, hidden beneath his helmet, he goes off to fight in the war against the Separatists under Jedi Knight, General Obi-wan Kenobi. Accompanied by only his tight beam, he helps ward off a Separatist invasion, falling in love with his Jedi general along the way.Mulan AU





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fabulous art by the amazing vulpesarctica! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧You can see more of their work here: http://vulpesarctica.tumblr.com/

__

“Focused and precise. Decisive.” Anakin squints at the tiny words scrolling across the manual on his lap. His back bows so far over that his nose touches the cool screen. Its cool inside the small room, the heat of the early morning sunrise soaked up by the thick mud walls. “Follows the chain of command.” He taps on the screen to turn it off before repeating the words under his breath. “Focused. Precise. Follows orders. Got it. Grunts follow orders.”

He hears C3P0 shuffling in the kitchen outside the archway to their shared room. “Focused,” he says again to himself as the droid yelps from the other side of the flap. Something clatters to the floor followed by a string of flamboyant mutterings and the squeak of unstable joints.

On his way out the door, Anakin kisses the exposed wires on C3P0’s cranial casing as he tucks his kit into a bag. “Wish me luck.”

“Oh! Master Anakin!” 3P0 squeals as the door hisses shut behind Anakin.

He meets with two representatives from the Service Engineering Corps in their shabby dome in the middle of town. But the possible job connection ends with a thrown table and a drink in the man’s face when he says “We don’t take slogs here, boy. You best run back to your Master.”

Anakin spits and hisses at the man as he’s dragged out of the office and deposited in the sandy street. “I’m a karking person, you sleemo,” he screams uncaring of the people watching from the shaded stalls nearby.

But by the time the sun has barely topped the low, whitewashed domes of the city, Anakin is already sliding into a stool at the nearby cantina. The Republic credits in his pockets buy him a seat at the back booth hunkered away in the shadows and away from prying Stormtrooper inspections. But despite Republic control, the wupiupi he’d made from fixing droids buy him a line of spice and a chance to drown out the holo broadcast blasting from the bar about another Sepretist attack led by Count Dooku on the other side of the galaxy.

That afternoon, he fumbles through the barren alleyways in a haze of alcohol and spice as he stumbles up a set of irregular steps. The roof of his labor complex provides a more comfortable bed for his anger and disappointment than his droid’s empty platitudes in the apartment below.

He throws a chunk of scrap into the street as hard as he can when he closes his eyes and imagines his mother’s haggard face, dotted with sun spots.

Sweating and dizzy, he slips into a hot sleep and doesn’t see when the suns fade on the horizon. When he wakes, the stars flicker dimly in a dark sky despite the lack of light from the town. But Anakin carefully counts them and repeats their names in a sting of slurred words until he passes out again against the stone of the top dome.

When a shot in the alley below shatters the remnants of the cool night, Anakin jerks awake. The barest hint of light creases over the horizon as he leans over the edge of the roof, peering down into the filthy street, his tongue heavy and thick in his mouth.

There’s a clone, dead and surrounded by scavengers. Echoed voices curse between the buildings below as dirty lowlifes pry off his white armour; searching for sellable goods. The man’s rifle is gone; probably already shoved away and out of sight to sell later.

Anakin leaves them to their task but mulls over the sight from the edge of the roof. The clone’s armour is of little value to the scavengers so they leave it. The man’s tiny pouch of Republic credits, however, and his comm are more interesting. When they’re done, they drag the body to the side to lean it up against the wall before leaving. The unmarred white glows in the dim light.

The clone’s head droops down onto his chest; his neck muscles have gone limp. Blood seeps out of his temple and sluggishly slides down the side of his face; collecting on his dark body suit. His arms and legs lay where the thieves left them; contorted and splayed.

Anakin clutches at this head. What little spice remains in his veins gives him the strength to haul himself up only to stumble down the staircase and out into the alley. In a sweaty huff, he drops himself in front of the clone. The man’s helmet sits down farther down the alley; probably ripped off his face and tossed to the side. From up close, the man’s eyes are open and dull; the brown gaze already shriveling in the heat. There is a green tattoo above his eye. Just one triangle but Anakin reaches up to trace it. “Hello,” he says. He reaches out to lift the man’s arm and compares their hand sizes palm against palm.

The sun hasn’t yet appeared over the shanty skyline when he pulls the helmet down over his own curly hair. The visual sensors light up blue as he looks down at his hands. A message pings in his peripheral vision. He ignores it in favor of reaching out to disconnect the chest piece. The bodysuit is the most difficult part. The back is zipped from the man’s neck to his ass and Anakin has to roll him around repeatedly to peel off the synthetic membrane. The corpse is dusty and cold by the time he’s done.

He takes the helmet off before he falls into the back room of his apartment through the window.

“Oh! Master Anakin!” C3P0 exclaims from the kitchen. “I was worried beyond belief!”

“Yeah, 3P0, thanks. He grabs his tablet and syncs it with the data chip in the vambrace. “Look, can you give her a message from me? To my mom?”

“Of course I would be happy to pass on any type of communication-”

“Right,” he interrupts again “just tell her I love her and she’ll hear from me soon. And tell her not to worry even though she will.” He glances around the room. Clone’s don't have possessions, he thinks.

The room is still and resonates with the sound of his own breath whistling through his ears and the whirring of the droids cybernetic brain. Sand floats in through the open window and the rays of the first sun. In the nearby apartments, people are shifting and cooking; ready for another day of heat and labor.

“Are you going on a journey, Master Anakin?” C3P0 says, trembling on his thin joints.

“Yeah, I am.” Anakin tugs at his new armor, his mind made up. “If I’m not back in a week, let the landlord know I’ve gone. Then, head out to the Lars’ homestead.” He tugs the helmet back over his hair and leaves through the front door. CSP0 waves goodbye to him with two stiff arms and wishes him good luck.

Everything he needs to know scrolls past his vision at a command. “CT-1217” he mumbles, “What a name.” His voice projects though the microphone and out through the external speakers as a grainy mess. “CT-1217” he says again, this time lower. The armour fits him well: no sharp corners digging into his elbows or pain at his temples from a tight fit. He strides across the marketplace with the measured and even gait of a someone confident. Inside, he prompts the computer for more information as quickly as he can read it.

“CT-1217,” says a voice over the internal tightbeam, “Please respond. You are 30 minutes late for check in.”

“CT-1217 reporting,” Anakin says. He reaches up to wiggle the helmet, unaccustomed the weight. The spice in his veins is make his head feel tight and overwhelmed in the claustrophobic bucket. “I ah, ran into some on-worlders.”

“Understood. Return to base.” The connects cut out with a sizzle.

Anakin navigates the alleys and main thoroughfares with practice; weaving in and out between early morning risers and drunken sods with a single minded goal. Normally, he would stick to the shadows and the cool stone under ratty overhangs, but today he marches down the center of the street. The white armour keeps him cool and turns his erratic breathing into deep shuddering inhales.

At the base, his helmet tells him the codes and directions to report in. He is admonished for his inability to keep ahold of his weapon, but issued another standard rifle immediately. A quick uplink with his suit from the medic determines that he is perfectly healthy shape (despite his apparent tussle with the resident filth) but has an elevated heart rate due to a large dose of natural adrenaline. He is ordered to his bunk and given his next orders.

“You’re shipping out with Trapper and Wooley to join the two-twelfth. Congratulations. You’ve made it off this shit-hole.”

Anakin salutes the clone and falls into his bunk. The read out on his screen informs him that he is suffering from endorphin withdraw. He pulls the thin blanket up over his helmet and squeezes his eyes shut to stop the flow of pitiful tears. Its too late for any regrest. He clutches at his shoulder under the blanket as the spice begins to clear from his head. He hopes Cliegg will let his mother down gently when he tells her that her only biological son went and got himself blown to bits from his own stupidity. 

Sleep doesn't let him escape that night.

 

************************

 

The transport from Tatooine passes with few words exchanged by the occupants. Wooley sits beside him without a glance and is more interested in cleaning his side arm than making meaningless small talk. Trapper falls asleep as soon as they enter hyperspace. They are strapped into crash webbing in the cargo hold of the tiny skipper with only a shipment of a few vaporizers to escort them. Anakin is itching to fiddle with the control console in the corner but the weight of his new helmet keeps him secured to the seat.

In stark contrast, the flight deck of the Star Destroyer is bustling with clones, droids and Republic workers tending to all manner of fighters and cargo ships. The explosion of noise and motion registers on his scanners and with readouts of names, ranks and positions. He tunes out the deluge of information by tracking each short-range fighter that passes and whispering their designation while ringing his hands around his rifle.

They don’t wait long for their escort. The clone introduces himself as Commander Cody and welcomes them curtly to the battalion. “You’ve received your orders for the next two cycles,” he says as the information slices its way across Anakin’s vision. “You will be integrated into an existing division. The General will be handing out orders 36 hours before we arrive at our destination. Until then, you are permitted to acquaint yourself with the ship. Mess is on level 24.” He pauses and taps his helmet. “Welcome to the Two Twelfth. Dismissed.”

Anakin wanders the flight deck before locating his new bunk. He’s on the bottom of three with a view of the previous occupant’s penchant for busty Tweliks. He frowns in the anonymity of his helmet but decides to leave the posters there out of respect for a dead man. Besides, he doubts these clones would appreciate the erotic detailed schematics of a hyper drive instead of a thick and curvey montrals. He vaguely wonders if genetics means they would all be into the same girl.

The ship seethes with activity and the bunk room is no exception. Clones are in and out with changing of shifts, Some are sleeping or playing hologames or pulling their curtains closed for privacy. The mess is no different either. His read-out points out Trapper and Wooley and Anakin sits with them. They’ve taken their helmets off but don’t seem fazed when Anakin doesn’t bring a tray with him.

“Got a hypo-bug?” Trapper asks. “I could never eat after the first few trips. You’d think those clonners would’ave bred them outta us.”

Anakin nods. “Yeah, doesn’t sit right in my stomach. Too cold out here.” Of course, his suit keeps him the ideal temperature but his skin misses the sun. He shivers and rubs his shoulder. How long does he have before they realize he's gone?

“Met a few of these brothers already,” Wooley comments. His face creases over his dinner. “Seem like a good bunch. Different than the planet-crawlers. Gonna have to get used to jumpin’ from place to place.” He stirs his nutrient broth. “Haven’t thought much else about patrols for months now. I feel like all those drills on Kamino aren’t in my muscles any more.”

Trapper nods although Anakin’s read-out informed him that Trapper had only been on Tatooine a month. They were both newly grown; Anakin’s armour processed just a few weeks ago - a real shiney.

Wooley looked up from his tray and at Anakin. “Stay to the back for now. Heroics are for the Jedi.”

They finish their meal as Anakin wonders if the stories his mother used to tell match a real Jedi Knight. He spends that night trying to write out a message for 3P0 to pass on to the homestead. Everything he says sounds like he’s lost his mind. Maybe he has.

But he doesn't actually see the Jedi General until the mission briefing. He’s laying in his bunk when the message pops up on his display. Anakin partially knows what to expect from digging on the Holonet; everything about the Jedi Order itself up to the gossip chains surrounding the General’s love interest Satine Kryze.

But Obi-wan Kenobi himself stands straight and poised with his arms folded over his chest. He addresses the Star Destroyer with a blank face; his lips almost overshadowed by his kept beard. His long cloak drapes around his feet and Anakin squints at the glint of a lightsaber hidden in its folds.

“In a few moments, Commander Cody will be sending your individual orders through the tightbeam. We will be aiding in a humanitarian relief effort for the inhabitants of Dantooine. Recent warfare has left them without sufficient food and shelter. The Senate has acted swiftly to disperse the appropriate aid. Please remember that our main objective here is to provide immediate care.” He pauses and glances off to the side as Commander Cody steps into the picture.

“You’ll be reporting to your respective transports at 0430. We will not be transporting any citizens of Dantooine to GAR medical facilities.” Cody says reaching across his body to his wrist. Anakin’s orders flash across his display.

“Kenobi out.”

 

************************

 

Craters and blast burns litter the surface of Dantoonie. Anakin stares out the gunner-slits on the side of the LAAT/i as it touches down on the rotten ground. Off in in the distance, the smoking skeleton of a large town smolders despite the steady rain. Fields stretch out as far as he can see; the landscape crawling with white bodies setting up forward bases and relief tents. Two clones hurry past the landing transport with a case of long-term care bacta patches.

“CT-1217, you’re with me,” says a clone that identifies on Anakin’s display as the leader of Warherm Company. “Name’s Coast. Let’s go. We’ve got a lot of ground to cover today.”

They’re three clicks outside camp, passing through grain as tall as a the tracks of a sandcrawler, when Anakin feels a twitch in his eye. “Commander,” he says over tightbeam. “There’s something out there.”

Coast pulls up a fist and the company raises rifles; taking point around their position. “Eyes, report.”

“Scanners indicate no Separatist chatter in the vicinity. Maybe an animal.”

Coast stands up straight from his low crouch and indicates the group move forward again. “Let’s go men, we’ve got injured stranded at the perimeter monitoring caddy.”

Anakin’s hands jerk towards his rifle. “It's still there, sir.” The reeds rustle in a faint breeze. “About a half-click out. Directly west.”

Eye’s indicates a no go and Coast starts moving again. “If there is, it's too far out. Our objective is the caddy.”

Annoyance and anger flutter in Anakin's stomach and he takes a step away from the company. “Sir, I can take care of this. I’ll meet you at the rendezvous point. I’ve got bad feeling about this.”

Coast pushes past the other men on his way to Anakin’s position. “Good soldiers follow orders, shiney.” He jabs a finger at Anakin’s helmet. “Get back in formation.”

They make it to the caddy to find the troops stationed there dead. Bodies of clones and droids lay strewn across the trampled ground as if thrown from an explosion. The Caddy itself is a twisted smoking hulk spewing sparks out into the surrounding dry grass. Coast immediately establishes a perimeter as two clones investigate the command module. The filter on Anakin’s helmet clears out the worst of the smell.

He’s tasked with calling in a LAAT/i to return the bodies to the Star Destroyer. Coast sends him up into orbit with them with instructions on proper procedure. The grunts who come to collect the bodies don’t even look at him as they record the trooper's ID numbers and catalog their time of death for the official report.

He returns planetside on the next transport with a shipment of fresh supplies and orders to report to the General’s forward operating base. The green and yellow view of the planet is only Anakin’s second glimpse of another world. But this time, his stomach churns.

The general’s caddy sits on the grassy surface of the planet on sturdy legs. Swarming around the metal base, clones bustle back and forth with injured civilians and medical supplies. Many clones squat next to blank-faced locals taking down their information and promising to check back with them about their families. He can barely look away from his path after he steps of the transport and onto the trampled grass. Smoke from the funeral pyres hangs in the air like a black plague over the camp.

Inside the pod, the atmosphere is still tense and the skin on Anakin’s arms pebble up under the sensation. General Kenobi stands over a large display of the surface stroking his beard and directing the other commanders over his wrist comm.

He stands up straight when he catches sight of Anakin. “CT-1217,” he says by way of greeting.

“Sir,” Anakin says, saluting and snapping to attention.

“Forgive me, trooper, I would prefer to use your name, if I may.”

Anakin shakes his head in his helmet. “I don’t have one yet, sir.”

Kenobi raises on eyebrow and shifts his arms across his chest. “I see.” He glances to his side. “Cody, if you would, for a moment.”

Commander Cody, scrolling through his data pad, nods and ushers the other clones from the room leaving the controls unattended. His orders to other units flicker across Anakin’s display as the door hisses shut behind him.

Anakin shifts in his boots, unsure of military punishment protocol. Was arguing with an officer going to get him kicked out? Why couldn’t he just keep his mouth shut for once? He rubs at his shoulder.

The general folds his hands behind his back, watching Anakin with a steady gaze. In all the holo commands, he had looked passive and unemotional; everything Anakin expected a Jedi to be. But here, in the tent, his eyes are lined with stress and his face pale. Dark circles mar his skin under his eyes and his collarbone peaks from under his armor, boney, as if he’s lost weight.

“I am not in the habit of encouraging disobedience in my ranks, trooper. This is a military operation and orders are expected to be followed,” Kenobi says. His voice is quiet and measured and Anakin’s jaw flexes at the man’s words. “However, Sargeant Coast has informed me that your warning was conveyed to Phaser Company. They were able to evade detection by a Separatist tank column left behind when the fleet departed. Your advice saved many lives today. I wanted to personally thank you.”

Anakin salutes again, his tension draining back down through his boots into the floor. “Thank you, sir.”

“However,” Kenobi says, “I am curious as to how you were able to detect their presence.”

“Just a bad feeling, is all, sir,” Anakin says. “They normally turn out to be true. Uh, unfortunately.”

Kenobi raises an eyebrow at his, stroking his head. “I see,” he says. But he doesn’t comment any further. “Check in again with Coast before jumping on a transport. He may have orders for you planetside before departure.”

Anakin nods, his back snapping up again. “Sir,” he says as Kenobi goes back to his map.

  
On his way out of command, Anakin turns again to see the Jedi bent back over the holotable before the door hisses shut. His face glows in the blue light, his forehead furrowed. He suddenly has a bad feeling about all of this.


	2. Chapter 2

****Anakin had never realized how boring space travel could be. In the rational part of his mind, he knew the distance between systems, even at light-speed, was more than a quick stop over at the local cantina. But the excited, child-like part of him was caught up in holo-images of the flash of stars through the portholes and the dizzying and abrupt flash back into real-space.

But the Destroyer offers few chances to see the stream of stars as the ship hurdles through empty space. It's no cruiser, built for the comfort of its crew and passengers, with transparisteel in every possible space; it's a machine, built to cause as much damage as possible and still protect the crew inside. 

And so Anakin often finds himself in the hangar bay when he isn’t on drills or cleaning duty. The techs tend to leave the giant bay doors open as much as possible so the light of hyperspace shines down on the crowd of fighters. He makes small talk with the mechanics and fiddles with a few control systems himself. Most of them aren’t clones, so they prefer to leave him to his task. 

After the first few times that Anakin had fixed up a faulty engine, the Nubian supervisor had checked his work. But after he re-installed a fried power coupling in General Kenobi’s Delta 7, the supervisor waved him to the other fighters.

“Have at ‘em,” he said. “Just make sure you put the tools back where you got ‘em.”

While he appreciates the sheer power of the bombers and the amazing functionality of the landers, it's the Delta that has his mind whirring with upgrades and modulations. By the time they reach their next destination and are orbiting around Felucia, he’s re-wired the harness for more even power distribution and re-mapped the exhaust to cut down on fuel consumption.

“I thought that it felt a bit different,” says a voice as Anakin’s fiddles with a stripped bolt; his torso wedged up into the engine bay. He’s taken off this chest armor and gauntlets for better maneuverability.

Anakin jerks at the voice, all his attention having been devoted to his task.

“General Kenobi,” he says, struggling to pull himself out of the fighter and stand at attention, “sir.”

“Please, CT-1217, there’s no need for such formality. We are both off-duty I assume.”

The clock in Anakin’s head’s up flashes that it's well past o’two hundred. Anakin relaxes and drops his wrench back on the tool chest with a clang. He winces. “Uh, yes sir.”

The Jedi steps up closer to the fighter and runs a gloved hand over the nose. His face is softer than when Anakin last saw him on the surface of Dantooine. And there’s a hint of smile from under his red beard. “I suppose I have you to thank for the increased throttle control. It was a bit boggy before you re-routed the power grid.”

“Yes, sir.,” Anakin says, happy to talk mechanics. “It wasn’t too hard to re-wire for more precise inputs. Technically the base map only controls for standard inputs -sometimes with droid enhancement- but I thought she might perform better for you if I overrode the control module and deleted the safety protocol that stabilizes fueling under aggressive initial throttle. So, it should react faster now that the computer doesn’t think you’re inputs are too fast to be intentional.”

The General raises one pale eyebrow at him and Anakin blushes. Luckily, it's hidden under his helmet.

“Uh, yeah. So has it been working? It's not like I have a proper dyno on board to test the map. I was hoping that went we dry-dock on Coruscant that I’ll be able to-” Anakin cuts himself off and bites his lip. “Uh, sorry sir.”

Kenobi smiles then and a thrill of sweet pleasure drips down Anakin’s spine. He swallows and tries to think of the busty Twe’liek above his bunk.

“It’s quite alright, 1217. I’m flattered to hear that you hold my abilities in such high esteem. I can assure your confidence in my abilities far exceeds my actual skill level,” he says. He picks up the wrench Anakin discarded and tilts his head. “I admit, that I haven’t met another clone that was quite so interested in mechanics as you are.”

Anakin fidgets, balancing his weight on one foot and then the other. “Uh, me neither, sir.”

The General places the wrench back on the chest with more care than Anakin had and pushes his hair back from his forehead before tugging on his short beard. “And how much time in flight simulation did you have on Kamino? I’m assuming not much, if you were assigned to the land division before ship-out.”

His head’s-up display helpfully informs him of the specific details of his training. “The standard, sir. Including a few space drills in orbit.”

“Hm,” the General says, humming and pulling on his beard again. “Please let Commander Cody know if you are interested in a change of assignment. I’m sure that Coast would be upset to lose you, even given your short time with him.” He looks over at Anakin again, his eyes shadowed by pale lashes in the bright overhead lights of the hanger. “But that would be nothing if you would enjoy it more.”

Anakin swallows and nods. “Yes, sir. I’ll think about it sir.”

Kenobi tits his head at Anakin, raising one eyebrow. “Good-night, CT-1217,” he says. “I look forward to seeing you in the air.”

Anakin puts in his request with Coast after only two cycles. The Clone raises an eyebrow at him but keys in the order on his tablet anyways. “There’ll be a test, you know. Can’t just switch you over like that. Seems your aptitude tests were borderline.”

He looks up at Anakin. “You’ve been practicing?”

“Yes, sir,” Anakin says. “Gotten a lot better.” It's almost the truth. He’d been practicing his whole life. Just not on the flight simulators. Suddenly his hands itched with the chance to wrap them around a throttle.

Coast nods. “Good. Make sure you do well. Don’t want members of my company being shuffled around because of incompetence.”

Anakin salutes. “No, sir. This might be the last you see of me.” He wonders suddenly if it really could be the last time. How long had it been since he send any of his income back to the Homestead? C3P0 must have contacted his mother by now. He rubs at his shoulder. It aches below the skin.

Coast lowers his tablet and Anakin's attention jerk back to him. “Can’t say I’m happy. You mesh well with the team. I’ll be sad to lose you.”

 

********

 

His bunk is private enough for the most part. He has a screen that folds down on both sides to cut him off from the constant din of the large room. The lights are always dimmed, as troopers have rotations around the clock, but it’s never dark.

After growing up in a tiny town on the edge of the dessert, Anakin still hasn’t become accustomed to the noise and lights.

But he sleeps soundly enough after days filled with physical exercises with Coast and company and evenings huddled over maintenance manuals for the Z-95 Clone Starfighters. Every so often he’ll browse through the engineering notes for the Delta, but he prefers to fiddle with its systems on his own.

He gets along well enough with the other clones. They’re odd to him. Like brothers or close friends but not really. He doesn’t really understand what they are - and he can guess that he never will. They don’t comment on his helmet. And no one ever harasses him about all the other oddities that come along with his secret.

And as the weeks blend together, he comes to realize that he isn’t all that unique. Cobb, whose bunk is four rows down from him towards the aft of the Destroyer, never takes his boots off. No one talks about why; they just accept it and move on. Black-Barrel, who is part of Trapper’s new unit, hasn’t ever uttered a word in Anakin’s presence. He doesn’t know if it's just him, but he doesn’t ask. And Waxer and Boil, they never spend more than a moment away from each other. Wooley tells him one morning that they’re both part of Kenobi’s personal team and that they’ve worked together too long to be of any use apart. Anakin thinks they’re probably more interested in sucking each other off than worried about any tactical expertise.

But he does his best to blend in. And his clone Brothers make it easy for him. That includes spending as much time as possible in the mess.

“Did you grab some of those wrapped  dumplings?” Wooley asks, his mouth full, as Anakin takes his customary place in the at their table. He dumps his small pile of portable rations on the table before he slumps onto the bench. “Had those last week. Pretty good for being made out of paste.”

Boil leans over into Anakin’s space and pokes at his pile. “How did you get the last of the pickled eggs? Cook yelled at me when I tried to grab it.”

Waxer elbows Boil in the ribs. “Shut it, Boil. Cook was saving it for him.”

Anakin elbows Boil from the other side and pulls his pile of snack closer. “He was. Likes me I guess.”

Wooley goes back to shoveling food into his mouth and only looks up again when Trapper sets down his tray at the table. “Found out our next stop, ladies,” he says, tearing open his drink pack. “Station orbiting some gas giant out near Mandalore. Come under fire from some pirates siding with the Sepies.”

Waxer rolls his eyes and jabs his fork in Trapper’s direction. “I say good to that. No surface on those things. It’ll be a dogfight.”

“General’ll wipe the floor with Pirates soon then we can load the forward guns,” Wooley says around another bite. “Won’t even need to climb into my boots.”

“What about the station itself? Won’t we need a boarding party?” Anakin asks.

Boil rubs his hand through his short cut ad shrugs. “Maybe. But I’ll be special opps. The Commander’ll take an extraction team in. Nothing for you to worry about.”

Anakin glowers. “I’m not worried, just curious.”

Waxer stands suddenly, picking up his tray. “We’ve been lucky,” he says and the table grows silent in the loud echo of the room. “That we’ve got our General. Other Brothers haven’t been.”

They watch him go for a moment before Boil hurries after him leaving his half-eaten tray on the table. Wooley and Trapper look over at each other before Trapper sighs.

“What was that?” Anakin asks.

A clone from a nearby table turns around with a wide grin and dumps his tray over to their bench. He plops down in the seat Boil left, leaning in with raise eyebrows and a few taps of his fist on the metal surface of the tabletop. “Briggs,” he says. “Nice ‘ta know you.”

Wooley introduces them all before leaning in closer. “What’s he talking about? What’s the General have to do with our assignments?”

“Haven’t been on board too long, have ya’?” Brigg says. He stabs his fork into a pile of starches as he talks, spreading them around on his tray. “The Commander keeps it quiet, but rumor has it that the Council isn’t too happy with the General’s Jedi-like behavior. After that stint we had, few months ago on Ryloth, they’ve been careful with assignments.”

“What happened?” Anakin says, interrupting. “What happened on Ryloth?”

Brigg rolls his head to the side, look at Anakin from the corner of his eyes. “We won. That’s what happened. But the Council didn’t like the way the General went about doing it, yeah? Said he compromised the mission.”

“Did he?” Wooley asks. “Compromised the lives of Brothers?”

“Brothers?” Briggs almost yells. “Not Brothers. I don’t mean any clones or civilians. I’m talking about himself. Compromised being Jedi to win.”

“I heard that he was raised by a maverick,” Trapper says. “One of the Brothers down in engineering, transferred from under General Windu, said that the General’s Master was a bit of a hoon.”

Briggs shrugs. “Don’t know about all that. But I do know that he’ll do whatever it takes to the get job done. Guess the Council don’t like how that looks.” He drops his fork onto his tray with a clatter and reaches for his knife instead, his eyes narrowed. “But this is between us Brothers. Do you understand me?”

They all nod and Brigg sits up straight. “Good,” he says. He takes a sip of his water before standing up and leaving without another word.

Anakin goes to sleep that night after reading up on Ryloth without taking the time to throw away his food wrappers. And when he wakes up in the middle of the night in a hot sweat, there’s crumbs scattered across his chest. Somehow, they’ve wedged been under his bodysuit in all the most annoying places.

He pulls off his helmet, his privacy screens carefully closed, and drops his head in his hands. “What a dream,” he mumbles to himself. It's become odd to hear his natural voice. A group of clones are playing a rowdy round of sabacc somewhere in the giant room and their laughter echoes around between the bunks.

He squeezes his eyes shut and rubs his temples, the disorienting dream even more confusing now that he’s awake. “Kenobi seducing the Twi'lek rebel leader. Urgh.”

Suddenly, he yearns for a hit of spice to take his edge off and falls back onto his thin sleeping mat in a huff.

His mother would be ashamed.

“Kriff,” he says as he struggles with the zipper of his suit. He can’t sleep without it, the air circulation in the ship being too cool for his dessert-skin.

He squirms to peel the black fabric down over his shoulders and chest before arching off the mattress to slide it over his hips and down to his thighs. Groaning as his half-hard erection finally falls out, he lets his head fall back against the wall of his bunk.

Biting his lip, he strokes himself quietly despite the noise in in the background. He’d learned early on from his heads-up display that his elevated breathing and blood pressure was highly irregular. And that he should excuse himself to medical for a hormone injection. “Kriff that,” he says to himself.

The dream meshes up with his frustration in a smooth merge of half-remembered images and urges. Feeling Kenobi’s cool calm in the command caddy and the smooth offer he presents to the Twi'lek in his dream - and Anakin squeezes the base of his dick to stop himself from coming quite so quickly. He glares up at the Twi'lek poster above his head. “Shit.”

But his mind trips into the next fantasy before Anakin can fully force down his rising crest of pleasure and the movement of his fist. Kenobi, pushed down on his hands and knees with a - “Kriff me,” Anakin says again, groaning as his hips buck and a thin stream of hot come splashes up onto his stomach.

His tense body collapses back against his mat, his breathing harsh and erratic. A wrapper from one of his snacks works well enough to clean himself off even if some crumbs stick to his body. He ignores them in favor of tugging up his bodysuit and jamming his head back in his helmet.

“Shit,” he says again, groaning and filled with a different sort of shame. His voice through the speakers sounds like someone else entirely.

 

*******

 

Anakin gets two rounds in the simulator before his scheduled test. The tech has him takes him through the first three progressions before skipping to the last one. Anakin leaves after only forty minutes with a new division and commanding officer.

Commander Cody meets him outside the sim room, his helmet under his arm. “Congratulations, trooper. The General said that you were more flight material. Seems he was right.”

Anakin isn’t sent out in the mad dogfight over the gas giant. His new Staff Sergeant Bors belabors the fact that he hasn’t flown in any tandem simulations with the rest of the squadron and is grounded for the battle. It's over quickly, though, just as the Brothers had predicted, with Kenobi flashing a line to the base and sending in an extraction crew to re-instate Republic control.

When Anakin sees the General after the battle, he’s flushed and red with his hair ruffled. They catch sight of each other from across the bay and Anakin salutes before he can acknowledge the sharp spark of joy in his chest.

His first few times out of the ship with his squadron go smoothly enough. He doesn’t shoot any friendlies out of the sky but he also doesn’t quite line up for graceful maneuvers with the others as much as he’d like. The directions are too slow and he finds himself pulling ahead and anticipating orders; ruining the flow and breaking order again and again.

Bors pulls him aside after the fourth run win a mild expression. He never seems one for emotional displays. “The General reviewed your flight logs,” he says, getting straight to the point. “Wants you transferred to his wing. Thinks you’ll do better there.”

Anakin’s mouth, already forming excuses about his behavior, hangs open in surprise. “What?” he says, shuffling back.

Bors shrugs, tapping on wrist. “You heard me, 1217.  You’ll get your standing orders by your shift end. Be ready to report. We’ll be shipping out soon enough. The General wants to get a few runs in you before our next dust-up.”

They don’t have long to wait either. After only one training - in the simulation no less - with the rest of Kenobi’s squadron, the Destroyer’s engines spool up for the initial jump into hyperspace. The walls and floors rattle with a stomach-twisting moment. Clones and other sentients alike reach out with grasping hands in some hind-brain reaction at the anticipation of a drastic lurch. It's never like that though, as the giant ship seamlessly enters hyperspace with little more than a flash of light.

Anakin feels foolish as he goes back to his lunch in the privacy of his bunk. His helmet is off and his hair saturated with chemical cleaners.

Commander Cody voice echoes over the intercom system only moments afterwards with their new orders. Three pronged invasion on Bandomeer with the Commander leading on the ground and Yularen leading in orbit.

Anakin slams his helmet back over his head and scrolls through his own orders. His orders with Kenobi’s squadron.

He spends the rest of the day reviewing flight patterns, determined to keep up.

Thankfully, despite his limited time with the other pilots and his position as tail, the dogfight itself flashes by in a flurry of adrenaline and excitement. Kenobi issues systematic but fluid orders over the open comm while simultaneously crashing their small number against enemy birds in both the planet's atmosphere and the vacuum of space alike.

Anakin’s movements and reactions twist and tug in a trance-like state. Every inch of him concentrates on dodging and firing and accelerating in a dizzy spin of colors. A jarring combination of feeling the sudden effects of gravity and the breathless joy of weightlessness sends his senses hurdling over a cliff of happiness he never knew existed. He exists with a single moment of action and yet completely outside of the long hours of the battle dragging by.

The fighter shifts and responds under his hands as if they were of one mind and not the crude connection between flesh and machine. As Kenobi speaks, Anakin’s fingers slide across the controls, pressing on buttons and toggles as his hands squeeze for a burst of heady acceleration and relax for the greedy suck of the engine to slow down before a dive.

Explosions of gas and super-heated electronics erupt around him; sometimes shaking his little fighter in their discharge. Over the static of the radio, other squadrons call out quick instructions and updates. Ten fighters hit the surface of an incoming enemy ship as it drops out of hyperspace above the planet. A brief moment of pain, like pricks of a desert bush, filter into his awareness of his own body. But he ignores it in favor of firing at an incoming droid squadron.

When they burst into flames, he doesn’t waste a moment before following Kenobi’s next order across the hull of the new vessel in a breakneck grab for position before their fighters are released.

His shoulders, tucked in underneath the crash webbing, throb with every pull as his body strains at the tough fabric. And by the end of the day, he knows he’ll have a dark bruises to show for his efforts. His lips are dry, parched with breathing through his mouth despite the pure oxygen being pumped through his helmet. He can barely spare a moment to lick them before Kenobi folds their group in half to finish of the scattered enemy fighters or to assist Yularen or Cody in securing their positions.

Anakin’s private comm flares to life over his helmet display as he diverts with a few others to patrol the surface of the planet. He’s lightheaded and giddy when he answers. “General Kenobi,” he says, “that was wizard!”

The Jedi laughs, the light sound of his soft voice taming Anakin’s breathing and heart rate. “I suppose it was,” he says. “You did well.”

Anakin grins, “Hope I’m invited back next time too, yeah?”

“Of course,” Kenobi says, his voice filled with a smile. “I would never have asked for you if I wouldn’t be true to my word.”

Back on the Destroyer the atmosphere is a little more somber. Transports carry wounded troops back and forth from the planet’s surface, replacing their number with fresh troops from the barracks or men cleared for duty from medical. Smoke billows out from hallways and gunner bays carrying the sickening scent of fried electric conduits and the stale scent of fire-extinguishing foam.

As soon as Anakin lands, he has only a moment to piss in a corner of the lavatory, stuff a dumpling under the chin of his helmet and climb back into a fresh fighter. He’s assigned reconnaissance for the next twenty-four hours; charged with monitoring any enemy troop movements on the mostly empty quarter of the planet.

Heavy jungle minimizes his efforts but he is able to report back every few hours with updated coordinates.

The next time he lands in the main hangar, he all but flops out of the cockpit and down the hall to the barracks; his limbs and mind heavy with exhaustion.

He runs into Loophole before he can collapse on his bunk and the other clone grins at him through a dense web of facial tattoos and punches him in the shoulder. It stings under the harsh attention, sore from the crash webbing.

“Nice flying out there,” he says. He pats Anakin on the shoulder with more finesse at Anakin’s instinctive recoil to the pain. “Think it’s time you added a few scratches to that white face of yours. Not going to get much dirt on it if you keep strolling across the sky like today.”

“Oh,” Anakin says, surprised. He reaches up to trail his fingers across the smooth surface of his helmet. “You think?”

Loophole pats him again. “Course. Can’t be part of Kenobi’s squadron with no face and no name, can ya?”  He takes a step back from Anakin, still grinning. “Go down and talk to Axis in the armory. He’ll get you some scars.”

He finds Axis on the floor four levels down and buried in tablets and reports as always.

“What?” the early-batch clone says, not looking up from his scrolling. “No new pistols unless they’re signed off by your direct officer.”

Anakin sways back and forth in the doorway, his body caught between exhaustion and excitement. His head pounds with blood but the pressure hasn’t yet transformed into a cracking headache.

“Here to get some yellow,” he says. “I’ve got something to say for myself.”

Axis’s fingers pause above his screen and he peers up at Anakin from his spot. He examines Anakin for a moment, his eyes narrowed, before he speaks again. “You got a name to go along with that new face, shiny?”

Anakin taps his fingers against his helmet, grinning. “Yeah,” he says. “Its Skywalker.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait yinz. I've got some of the next chapter already written so hopefully the next update will be sooner!


	3. Chapter 3

They never do make it back to Coruscant for repairs. Instead the Destroyer rendezvouses with a starport in the mid-rim to outfit the ship with new plating. Commander Cody updates the crew over the tight-beam with their new assignments while docked and drops a few hints as to their next destination.

“Although,” as a Clone says in the mess one morning from the other end of Anakin’s table, “Not like it matters. We’ll be along for the ride whether we want to or not.”

But plans are changed at the last minute by someone higher up in command than even the General; and, the morning before departure, when Anakin is assigned a final inventory of the ammunition hold, Commander Cody announces a surprise inspection over the tight-beam.

“He said ‘unscheduled’ but we’re three days out. Sounds scheduled enough for me,” says Briggs. They’d all been given additional tasks to scour every cranny of the giant ship. Anakin and Briggs were assigned with scrubbing a number of LAAT/i landers. Coast ordered that he wanted to be able to see the whites of his eyes when they were finished. 

Anakin shrugs, the movement hindered by his armor, and concentrates his efforts on dislodging the carcass of a small creature from a burst joint on the roof near the gunner’s nest. He wrinkles his nose at it as he tries to pry it out using a set  of pliers. “If I were the Commander, I wouldn’t care if it were scheduled or not. Just as long as we get the work done. It's probably good to have an inspection. Keeps our standards up.”

He thinks of his mother’s homestead and how she would insist on sweeping all the sand out of the storage dome before hosting visitors. It was his chore, he remembered, and he hated it. What was the use cleaning somewhere that his step-father’s friends would never go?

He doubts that the inspector will climb up onto the roof of the LAAT/i to take a look at his scrubbing skills; that would make for an amazing show. But the thoughts of his mother dull his replies to the rest of Brigg’s gruff comments. We wonders about how she might have reacted to his message. Was she upset that he’d left without seeing her? What if he died? How would he ever get word to her? The thought of leaving her with such a hanging thread makes him sick.

Anakin props his body up on his knees for more leverage and the scraps of flesh and bone finally pop free with one giant yank. He stumbles backwards with a yelp of surprise.

Briggs peers up over the top of the lander with a teasing grin “Took your time there, Skywalker, eh?” 

Anakin tosses the carcass at his face, still in a sour mood.

Thankfully, thoughts of his mother and the life he left back on Tatooine fade as the works amps up before the hour of the inspection. He doesn’t have time to be melancholy as his waking hours are spent writing more inventory reports and catching up on mandatory ground simulations with Coast’s company that he’d been neglecting after joining Kenobi’s wing.

The day of the inspection sees a full parade in the main hanger as the Republic ship docks and the inspector himself disembarks. The Brothers line up in neat, even rows stretching from one end of the hanger to the other as all of the fighters and support ships had been pulled to the sides to make way for the thousands of troopers. Small clusters of techs and Republic officers dressed in their dark uniforms and shiny black boots intersperse the sea of white. They all stand, at full attention, in two massive groups facing the center of the hanger. They would be quite a pristine sight with their freshly polished and cleaned armor if it hadn’t have been for the distinct yellow markings decorating their chests and faces. 

Only Commander Cody and General Kenobi loiter apart from the main force. Cody looks much the same; his armor scrubbed and shined as per usual. The General himself, normally one to forgo high standards of fastidiousness in the face of more important matters, shines like a beacon in bright new Jedi robes and crisp shoulder emblems. He’s clearly replaced his gauntlets as the old pair were more chipped and shingged than white.

Anakin can’t help but watch him as the two leaders greet the ship and the inspector with polite expressions. He’s brilliant, drawing Anakin’s attention like Tusken Raiders to a caravan.

Despite the number of people present in the hanger, the only sounds are that of the rapidly cooling Republic engines and General Kenobi’s clear words. “Welcome aboard, Senator Palpatine. I hope your journey was sound.”

“It was, General, of course,” says the inspector. His aides flood out of the sleek ship behind him. Anakin can’t make much of his face other than that of an older human male. His heads-up display flashes with a few basic facts about him being Nubian and a member of the Senate Commission.

Anakin’s eye twitches. He has a bad feeling about all this. He tries to remember if he forgot any of the tasks he was assigned. 

“Please, if I may show you to your quarters.” 

“Yes. That might be best.”   

Commander Cody follows the General and Senator Palpatine from the hanger without a word as the man’s aides unload luggage and equipment from their own ship. Two clones break from formation to assist them and within minutes, all the guests are gone from the giant room. 

It's almost funny that they’re all standing there in complete silence, unmoving, with just themselves for company. Anakin would have laughed if hadn't felt so faint on his feet. When the Commander’s order for dismissal echos through their helmets, the instant flurry of activity lifts his mood as the thousands of Brothers break into movement at the same moment.

In better spirits, he helps the technicians with the tedious task of moving all the equipment back to the appropriate place. Each ship has to be manually dragged with a tiny motorized cart to the correct location and all the corresponding fuel hoses, analytics equipment and tool chests brought back to their places. Its monotonous but it sets him back at ease and his bad feeling is soon forgotten. 

Commander Cody had informed them in advance that the inspection would be a lengthy one and that they would press on to their next engagement until it was complete. And within the next cycle, the ship makes the jump into hyperspace with a destination of Onderon. Rumor has it that they are going to join up with General Jinn’s larger fleet of Destroyers in orbit. 

Anakin happily discovers that he’s been placed on simulation, in addition to a more detailed cleaning rotation, to keep his mind and his reflexes active during the wait. He’s just stepping out of his last tactical maneuver sim a few cycles after the jump when his wrist communicator dings.

“This is General Kenobi.”

Anakin scrambles to turn on the holo feature so he can see the Jedi’s tiny blue figure hover above his wrist. He snaps to attention, “Sir,” he says. 

“At ease,” Kenobi says. He smiles, “I was planning on running some diagnostics on the Delta at twenty-four hundred hours when I go off duty. Would you like to join me? I know you’ve made some changes to the inertial dampeners and I wanted to review the alterations with you, if you’re available.”

Nodding, Anakin hastens to answer. “Of course, sir. My rotation ends at nineteen hundred hours.”

“Well, I’ll see you in the hanger this evening then.”

Anakin salutes as Kenobi breaks the connection. “Kenobi out.”

He arrives that night at precisely twenty-four hundred hours as he can’t decide if being a little early or a little late would be better. From across the hanger, he can see the Jedi’s bright head turning in the cockpit of his fighter as he fiddles with the controls.

He looks over and down at Anakin as he comes up alongside the craft.

“Sir,” Anakin says. “Uh, hello.”

“Hello, Skywalker,” Kenobi says, his head tilted to the side as if he is tasting the name on his lips. “It suits you.” 

His eyes float to the yellow line running across one of Anakin’s ocular sensors. It perfectly matches a real flesh scar over his eye that appeared after a fuzzy night out. Although, that wasn’t the story he told his mother when she saw it a few months later.

Anakin taps twice on his helmet like the brothers do when they’re smiling. He’s grinning like drunk gambler at the Boonta Eve Classic, his heart beating furiously in his chest. “Thanks, sir.”

Kenobi smiles down at him from his place in the cockpit. “Please.” He waves a hand dismissively through the air. “Let’s dispense with the formality. I did ask you here as a personal request.” 

Anakin nods and reaches for the handrails of the rolling ladder butting up against the side of the fighter. Sweat slides over his hands in his gloves as Kenobi’s gaze follows his movements as he hauls himself up the red steps. He leans on the side of the fighter with his forearms on the ledge of the hull.

This close, he could reach out and slide his thumb over Kenobi’s bottom lip. But he keeps his hands curled into fists and chews on the inside of his mouth instead. He clears his throat.

“It’s Obi-wan, you know.” Kenobi says.

Anakin tilts his head, startled. “What?” he asks.

Kenobi laughs at his tone, his eyes lighting up. “My name. It’s Obi-wan. I’m glad to have finally learned yours, Skywalker. I prefer to be on a first-name basis while not on-duty.”

Anakin watches the Jedi’s pale fingers slide up and down the control yoke as he speaks. He clears his throat. “Uh yes, sir - I mean Obi-wan. I’d like that.”

Kenobi smiles up at him from his lower seat in the cockpit and Anakin shivers. He feels like a hand is stroking down his spine and grabbing in at the base of his back. He licks his lips in the safety of his helmet. 

“Oh,” Kenobi says, tilting his head. He swallows and Anakin watches his throat bob up and down. He imagines for an instant that he can feel Kenobi’s interest and excitement hanging between them. He shivers again but tells himself it's impossible. 

“I had intended to show you the controls.” Obi-wan says, continuing on as if nothing had happened. He raises an eyebrow up at Anakin. “I’m sure you are familiar enough but I’m risk-averse on the best of days.”

“Had?” Anakin says, clearing his throat, his words tripping over themselves in his haste. “But, eh, yeah. I know them.” He panics, wondering if he just offended the man by sitting in his fighter without his permission. Anakin wouldn't want some random clone sitting in his cockpit and touching his controls. “I promise that I only sat in there once. I had to reattach the primary link underneath the dash and-”

Kenobi lays a hand on Anakin’s gauntlet, sucking the words right out of his mind “It’s fine, Skywalker. You’ll find I’m not territorial about my fighter. A Jedi has no possessions.” He’s smiling, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “I do trust you to work on it, after all.” 

Anakin glances down at Kenobi’s hand and his face heats. “Uh, yeah. Of course. I guess that I, you know, would want to know if someone sat in _my_ fighter, “ he says trying to explain himself. He curses under his breath feeling like an idiot.

Kenobi’s soft smile widens. “A true pilot then,” he says, removing his hand and standing in the cockpit. “But I’m sure you won’t mind taking this one out after repairs. I’d prefer to know that everything is in working order before a battle.” 

He steps up onto the edge of the cockpit and leans against the high top of the ladder’s handrail. Anakin has to strain his neck for a moment to see him. “Please, if you will, I’d like to go over the controls with you for my own piece of mind.” 

Anakin nods, his head jostling a bit in his helmet with his excitement. He surges up past the Jedi and hops over the edge into the seat. “Yes, sir. I mean, Obi-wan. You don’t have to tell me twice.”

“Ask, Skywalker,” Kenobi says from his place above him. He steps down again in the spot Anakin vacated. “We’re off duty.”

He continues on to point out the different control modules and settings, leaning over the edge of the cockpit as he gestures. Anakin half pays attention, more so aware of listening to the timber of Kenobi’s voice near his ear. 

The cockpit is larger than in his own standard-issue Z-95 and he’s has plenty of space to stretch out his legs. He settles back in the contoured flight chair and nods as Kenobi fiddles with the controls. He plays along, well aware that Kenobi knows he doesn’t need the lesson.

They talk about the upgrades he’s made then as Anakin shows him the new coding for the repulsors. “They should give you about two percent more power while under gravity. And they shouldn’t drain the coupling as much as before. I haven’t done any calculations though. So I don’t know how much they’re pulling.” He taps his fingers on the control panel.

Kenobi pulls up the engine schematics on the flight screen. The electronics are on but the engine is still in standby so there isn’t much data being sent through the guidance system. He scrolls through the new code, eyes stopping at the added sections. “Thank you for indulging me,” Kenobi says. “Cody claims I’m a bit of a worrier.”

Anakin taps his helmet twice. “I enjoyed it.”

Kenobi’s eyes search across Anakin's face for a moment; quiet in his contemplation. “Skywalker,” he says, his voice softer now that he isn’t talking about toggles or systems. “You’re quite different, you know, than the other brothers.” He reaches out to run a thumb down the yellow line through Anakin’s visor. “Even Cody refuses to call me by my first name.”

Anakin swallows. “You- ah, you said you wanted me to,” he says as a burst of foreboding swells in his chest. “I didn’t mean- if you don’t want me to just say and I’ll stop. I didn’t think that...”

His words taper off at Kenobi’s soft smile. “No, I said what I meant.”  He leans in closer, his upper body straining over the edge of the cockpit. “You feel… I can’t quite place it…” 

Anakin feels a rush of emotions flood through his heart. They’re conflicting; pushing and pulling with differing goals. He’s acutely aware that they aren’t all his own. As if he were feeling Kenobi’s internal conflict for just a brief moment of confusion. 

“Obi-wan,” Anakin says, his words suddenly desperate. An invisible hand on his spine smears a hot line of desire up his back and out his mouth. He presses his own gloved hand against the Jedi’s; this thumb rubbing over Obi-wan’s palm. “Obi-wan, you... I want-” 

The emotions in his mind condense into a sharp point and Kenobi hoists himself over the edge with his one arm, bringing his legs up over the side of the fighter and into the cockpit like no human Anakin has ever seen. A burst of hot energy puddles in Anakin’s stomach and he instinctively wraps his free hand around Kenobi’s waist to steady him.

The Jedi all but falls into Anakin’s lap, his legs wedged in the tight space on either side of the flight chair and his arm braced on one side of Anakin’s head against the back of the cockpit.

Anakin makes a horrible noise, the sound rattling out through the helmet voice box in a burst of static and he slams his hand down on the transparisteel canopy release. It closes overtop of them almost instantly with a shockingly erotic suck of air. 

Kenobi shifts on Anakin’s lap, dropping his head down to rest their foreheads together. “Skywalker,” he says, his voice rasping and rough, “This is highly unorthodox and frankly-” 

Anakin cuts him off with a tug on his robes. “Obi-wan,” he says, leaving no room for more protests, “Let me touch you, please.”

He didn’t think that the burn of his spine could flare any hotter, but the first roll of Kenobi’s hips sears him like the lance of a branding iron. Anakin steadies the man’s body as he shifts, his head thrown back and his thumb still pressed into Anakin’s new line of yellow paint.

“Force,” he moans, grinding down onto Anakin’s white armour. “I haven’t… in such a long time…” 

Anakin slides his hands up underneath Kenobi’s layers of robes, desperate to find his pale skin underneath. He peels back his tabards and outer robe enough to pull them free of the tight utility belt. “Shit,” Anakin says, grinding his teeth as he tugs on the straps holding the belt in place. “No wonder if it's always this difficult to get you naked.” 

Kenobi chuckles and swipes Anakin’s hands away. “Please, give me some credit.” He makes quick work of the buckles so that Anakin can drop the heavy piece of leather to the floor. His lightsaber clunks as it lands in the footwell. “I normally plan ahead for these types of meetings.” 

A sudden wash of hazy thoughts that are not his own rush over Anakin’s mind then. Of Kenobi face down with something thick up inside him. The sensation and the vision are gone as fast as he can process the feeling; disappearing from Anakin’s mind but leaving a burning image seared into his memory. 

Anakin groans and slides a hand inside the Jedi’s loosened under-robes to find the ties of his pants.

“Oh,” Kenobi says, out of breath and rolling his hips again. “I didn’t mean to show you that.” He gasps as Anakin finally tugs hard enough to pull the knot free and curl his fingers around Kenobi’s hard length.

“Stars, Obi-wan,” Anakin mutters, pressing his face into the Jedi’s stomach. The air filters in his helmet blocks out most of the tang of Kenobi’s sweat but he inhales anyways looking for even a taste of salt on the back of his tongue.

Moaning again, Kenobi rolls his hips up into Anakin’s fist. “Skywalker,” he says, whining, “I don’t...”

Anakin swears, his other hand holding Kenobi at the waist. The canopy fogs around them with the Jedi’s hot breath. 

“Obi-wan, you know that I can’t -” he hates himself for the double life he’s forced himself into. He’d never considered before the fact that he might have to lie about his dick and claim it doesn’t work like its supposed to. His fake confession comes out in a whine of frustration nonetheless. “I’m not equipped-”

Kenobi forces Anakin’s head back and up with pressure on his mark. His face is pink and flushed; his eyes dark. “I know,” he says. 

Anakin pulls him closer, his fist sliding up and down over Kenobi’s length, his grip light without any oils. He uses his thumb to pull up on his heavy sack, rolling his balls before concentrating on the wet head again. They go more slowly now, taking care to savor the moment and each other. 

Another memory takes a hold of him then with his mind so open: this one of their first meeting in the command center on Dantooine and the snap of their connection echoing through Kenobi’s mind. 

Kenobi’s moans again, his breath coming in sharp gasps and his hip moving in a lazy circle. “Oh,” he says, leaning back and spreading his legs as far as the cockpit allows. The top of his head brushes against the canopy.

Anakin reaches up to press his thumb into Kenobi’s mouth, his mind in a whirl of fantasies of using his own tongue to open up the Jedi’s lips. He’s overcome with desire to taste the man’s skin and feel the smooth slide of his body under his own calloused hands. Anakin prays that he could hear Kenobi’s moans without the help of the speakers in his helmet or whisper encouragements into his ears with his own voice.

Kenobi makes an indescribable noise as his motions stutter. “Force,” he says and Anakin invisions Kenobi splayed out beneath him on the floor of the hanger, his back arching and Anakin’s mouth on his stomach. He doesn’t even know if its his own imagination or Kenobi’s. He finds he doesn’t really care. 

Kenobi closes his eyes, a wet stream of salty tears running down the sides of his face. The vision clarifies again in Anakin’s mind. Anakin groans, the odd but fantastic feeling of simultaneously sinking into Kenobi’s tight body and being stretched open at the same time is almost too much. He’s painfully hard in the trappings of his armour. Sweat drips down his back before being sucked up by his bodysuit. His hair is matted to his forehead as his own breath comes in thick gasps. 

“Skywalker,” Kenobi says, his voice hoarse as Anakin rolls his fingers over the red flared tip of his cock. “I won’t be able to-. Please.” He says, dropping his forehead to Anakin’s helmet.

Anakin rolls his own hips, his biology overcoming his knowledge of Clone mannerisms. “Kriff, Obi-wan,” he says, words tumbling from his mouth as the sight overwhelms him. “You’re so beautiful, stars. I can’t believe I get to see you like this.”

Kenobi moans; a wet, broken thing leaving Anakin’s mind stumbling and his body stuttering. 

“Skywalker,” Kenobi says, his voice cracked. His thumb presses down so hard on Anakin’s yellow line that an alarm blares across his display and Anakin all but loses himself in the churn of shared sensations as Kenobi comes over his hand.

Kenobi’s slumps against him, his mouth open on Anakin’s shoulder and a sticky puddle between them. His chest rises and falls with a few deep breaths as his mind fades to a quiet hum against Anakin’s own.

Anakin shudders, his own dick desperately twitching inside his hard armour.

Ignoring it, he slides both of his hands up Kenobi’s armoured arms and up over his neck to his jaw. He watches the white splash running sluggishly down his glove as he pushes the man back so he can see his face. The heat of him soaks through Anakin’s gloves. The man’s pale lashes flutter against the tops of his cheeks and Anakin wipes away a line of sweat from his brow. “Obi-wan,” he says, his voice tight. “Karking hell.”

The Jedi smiles at him with a tiny lift of his lips. He looks exhausted, his hair mussed and cheeks flushed. “I could say the same about you, Skywalker.” He looks down at his softening sex and makes a face. 

Anakin laughs, the stress of the last few months falling away for a moment. “C’mon, let me up so I can get a rag. I’ve got one somewhere that isn’t covered in grease.” 

Kenobi’s nose scrunches up. “Pilots.”

 

******

Despite the fact that the Senator and his aides are prime examples of bureaucratic lobbyists, the atmosphere on the ship is generally pleasant. The Two Twelfth are confident enough in their preparations to pass inspection and they don’t have any news of an imminent battle to make them anxious. 

Anakin knows that once they rendezvous with General Jinn’s fleet the Brothers’ attitudes may change but for now he’s riding the anonymity of a ship filled with high spirits were no one notices his unusually happy attitude. Wooley and Trapper mostly ignore his strange excitement. If they knew, they would roast him like a tasty desert hog over an open fire. 

After his night with Kenobi he’d gone back to his bunk, yanked off his armor, peeled himself out of his bodysuit and gave his dick a few good tugs before spilling all over his stomach. He’d dreamt of speeding across the Dune Sea that night with the throttle pinned and a warm body pressing against him from behind. Even the prospect of an afternoon of being yelled at by Coast in mandatory training hadn’t dulled his mood.

When Anakin finally sees Kenobi again in the corridor two cycles afterwards, Kenobi is escorting Senator Palpatine and Anakin is on guard duty outside of the main bridge. They’re followed by a line of aides, each making notes on their tablets at each of the inspector’s comments.

“...brink of exhaustion.”

“Of course, Senator,” Kenobi says. 

His distinctive accent draws Anakin in to their words. He flushes at a memory of that mouth. 

“And it really is a shame that the new designs were delayed. They were twenty percent more effective in field tests.”

The whole group comes to stand close enough that Anakin can count out every embroidered snake on the Senator’s robes. He’s draped in luxurious fabrics and deep colors with gold adornments glittering in the folds of his clothes when he walks. With a rush of annoyance, Anakin thinks of his mother back on Tatooine and her threadbare shawls and coarse skirts.

The General glances over at him suddenly, a questioning look on his face. “Perhaps the Commission will choose to equip my troops when we next dock on Coursant,” he says, still looking at Anakin but speaking to the Senator. He quirks and eyebrow in a playful manner.

The Senator doesn’t seem to notice the exchange, too caught up in another comment, but Anakin feels the reassurance like a soft blanket against his mind.

“...it would behoove you, my dear boy, to think about my suggestion. I’ve no doubt that you would fill the role stupendously.” The Senator says as he sweeps past Anakin and the other guard and into the Bridge with his aides at his heels.

Obi-wan makes a noise of consideration and follows. “I will consider your kind offer, thank you Senator.” He pauses right as he steps past Anakin, inclines his head in the barest motion before smiling and continuing on.

The door hisses shut behind him, smothering the rest of their conversation, and Anakin is left to an emptier corridor. A few moments later, a message lights up both his display and his smile again: “Sim. 02:00.” 

He can’t pull the simulation roster up fast enough to add his name to a paired slot.

It isn’t quite like being in the cockpit of a real starfighter. And it certainly isn’t like being with Kenobi in the cockpit of his Delta with the canopy steamed and his body flexing against Anakin’s. But the repetition of flight patterns and engaging the throttle soothes Anakin like nothing else. They don’t linger on any of the more challenging simulations and instead lazily carve through throngs of droid cannon fodder on each other’s wing tips. 

He can’t see Kenobi through the simulator, but they have the comm open as they move through drill after drill. Kenobi’s voice intones, steady and sedate, as they both call and spot. Intermixed with the shop talk, Anakin teases Kenobi and is gifted with snark and sass in return. He finds himself grinning and his mind soaring as if he were actually in the clouds.

Kenobi’s presence readily blooms in the back of Anakin’s mind as time wears on. They reflect each other well, soon abandoning words all together for the silence of comfortable companionship. He finds that he doesn’t need conversation to keep the flow of feelings and new ideas sharp between them. They come easily enough with their mouths shut and his thoughts wide open.

Anakin’s heart beats with something more than adrenaline when they finally power down their machines.

“Very well done,” Kenobi says when they exit their pods. Sweat has matted his hair in parts to his forehead while a few sections strand straight up from where he removed his head set. His face is pink with pleasure and his mouth curved in a lovely smile. “I think we’ve quite improved since our last flight. You’re anticipating better than I ever would have hoped.”

“Don’t tease me, General,” Anakin says and he jiggles his helmet to show his good humor. “I’ve been practicing too hard for any false praise." 

“Skywalker, I’ve told you that my first name would be most appropriate.” Kenobi steps up closer to Anakin. They’re still wedged in the tiny vestibule outside the line of pods. Only a few red bulbs illuminate the dark space. The other pods are empty, Anakin knows, as he’d checked the roster earlier. 

“After all, I would call you my friend,” Kenobi says. He raises a hand and places it with gentle reverence on Anakin’s chest. 

A soft lightness settles on Anakin’s heart and he can’t help but smile down at Kenobi. He covers the man’s hand with his own gloved fingers; stroking his thumb along Kenobi’s knuckles. In this section of the ship, they are far enough removed from the propulsors on the engineering deck that its oddly quiet. The massive computer system responsible for the simulation pods hums behind them in the dim, pumping out heat, but otherwise they are distinctly separated from the normal business of the destroyer. 

“When can I see you again?” Anakin asks. He can’t barely think to hope that this - whatever it was - could continue. But yet, he’s had Kenobi’s body under his hands once and the general is allowing their continued contact now… 

Kenobi needs to tilt his head up to see Anakin’s face as they’re standing too close together. He strokes a finger down down the strip of yellow with a strange expression on his face. His eyebrows draw together but he still has a soft smile on his lips. His eyes roam across Anakin’s face as if he’s looking for something.

“It’s odd,” Kenobi says, his voice low. Anakin can barely hear him over the whir of the mainframe. His helmet amplifies the sound to assist. “I can’t quite place it. This connection.” 

“Is it bad?” Anakin asks as his smile falters.

“No,” Kenobi says. He looks considering. “No, its not. Quite the opposite, I think.” 

Anakin holds his position fearing one movement will throw off their tenuous balance. He wants to tell Kenobi that he feels something too. Something elusive and fleeting; liquid and without form. But he doesn’t have the words to describe it. It hovers in the back of his mind and runs out of reach whenever he tries to grasp at it with clumsy fingers.

When he was young he sometimes told his mother about things he would dream about. Things he would know without understanding why. She’d listened, patiently and without judgement as always, and would tell him that he need to follow his feelings. That, if nothing else in their lives, his thoughts were his own.

He’d kept her words close to his heart along with his precious secret. 

He opens his mouth-

“Skywalker,” Kenobi starts, “what do you know of the Force?”

Anakin pauses, considering the strange question. It hangs between them oddly. “That its what gives the Jedi their power,” he says after a moment. 

Kenobi smiles ruefully. “Yes, in a way.” He takes in a breath before continuing, licking his lips. “But it's more than that. It binds the universe together. It exists in all living things.” 

“Even a clone,” Anakin says as he tilts his head to the side, teasing. 

“Despite the Republic’s formal stance on clone sovereignty, they -and you- are very much living beings. So yes, even a clone.” Kenobi’s hand trails down Anakin’s chest and along his shoulder down to his forearms, the man’s eyes trailing his own movements.

He grows quiet and contemplative, his head cocked and this thoughts slowing to a trickle. Strangely, he doesn’t say anything else for a long while, his eyes staring and unfocused. His body is oddly still as if he had stopped breathing altogether. Fingers squeeze Anakin’s arm tightly enough for his armor to creak under the strain.

“General Kenobi?” Anakin prompts in almost a whisper. 

“Yes?” Kenobi says with a start, his head jerking up. He immediately steps back from Anakin, his hand sliding off his arm. 

“Are you alright, sir?” Anakin asks. The odd situation seems to wipe away any form of intimate knowledge they might have of each other. His limbs feel cold despite the perfect temperature his suit keeps him at.

Kenobi’s face remains impassive. “Yes, thank you Skywalker. I am quite well.” He takes a step towards the door and uses the pad to open the bulkhead. Bright light floods in from the control room outside.

Anakin pulls himself to attention. He fumbles for words now that their balance seems to have tipped away. “I look forward to our next simulation, sir,” he says. And then hastily adds now completely unsure of how they stand with each other: “With the rest of the squadron.”

Kenobi looks perplexed for a moment like he has no idea what Anakin is talking about. But his face smoothes back under his control fast enough. “Yes, I as well.” He turns his back to Anakin. “Good night, Skywalker.”

“Good night, sir.” 

The door slides shut behind him as he goes.

 

******

 

The general tone of the ship explodes with excitement as anticipation grows about the eminent rendezvous with General Jinn’s fleet of three Star Destroyers. Normally, the two twelfth contents itself with solo work but new rumours filter down to the Brothers that it was, in fact, General Jinn who was responsible for General Kenobi’s Jedi training. The Maverik.

“You heard, right?” Trapper asks Wooley in the mess with his helmet under his arm.  

Anakin scowls at his tray. Its covered in wrapped nutrition bars and packaged juices but he’s not hungry enough to leave for the safety of his bunk to eat. In fact, he’s contemplating throwing it all out. The only thing that stops him is a lifetime of living from one meal to the next.

“Are you joking! Of course I’ve heard. We’ve all heard!”  explains Wooley as he gestures wildly with his fork. A strange vegetable flies off the end of it and lands in Anakin’s tray. “I think even Axis knows, the old hermit.” 

“Can’t we just ignore it?” Anakin says, gritting out the words between his clenched jaw. “I’m sick of talking about it.” 

“Hey, just because you’re on the General’s wing now doesn’t mean the rest of us can’t have a good show. Besides,” Trapper adds, “it's all positive talk. The Brothers want to see them in action together.”

“Yeah, well maybe the General doesn’t want you talking about him. He’s a Jedi. Not some holo-famous.” Anakin huffs and crosses his arms over his chest. 

Wooley rolls his eyes at them, his helmet next to him on the bench. “They’re all famous now. And Jinn just as much of the rest of them. C’mon Skywalker, we all respect the General. He’s saved our lives as many times as we’ve given him the chance to. I can’t name one Brother who wouldn’t take a Seppie shot for him.”

“Sure, yeah.” Anakin stands and gathers his snacks, ready to leave.

It had been four cycles since he last touched Kenobi and eight cycles since he had seen the man arch his back in pleasure. And it would be another indeterminate amount of cycles before he would again. Since then, they’d spoken only in simulations with the rest of the squadron and only about maneuvers. Kenobi avoided eye contact with him, looking away whenever they they debriefed afterwards. I makes Anakin sick to his stomach.

He wallows in his bunk as much as possible, immerging only for his duties and a chance to clean his body in the chemical showers. And he would have slept right through the ship’s deceleration into real space if a stabbing pain hadn’t ripped through his heart and woken him.

“Obi-wan,” he gasps, his blood pounding and his chest sore. He reaches up to grasp at his suit over his heart as a low cry of sorrow escapes his lips in the dark.

The piercing cry of a siren startles him fully awake and Anakin sits straight up hitting his head on the bunk above him. He’d taken off his helmet - he just couldn't think straight with it on - and the pain of the collision knocks him right over the edge into alert anger. “Kark,” he yells, instantly trying to relieve the tender area by rubbing it. He looks up to see that he tore a section of the Twe’lik poster. One corner of it dangles down almost ripped clean off. 

Fumbling for his helmet and this other bits of discarded armor, he ignores the ache in his chest and yanks open the privacy screens. All around him, Brothers are scrambling to pull on their kit as the red emergency lights flash overhead in time with the siren. Shouts and orders reverberate around the enormous room as everyone clamours for more information and directions on what to do. A wild panic fills the air, months of battle readiness seemingly wiped away in the confusion.

“All personnel report to battle stations,” says Commander Cody’s voice over the ship’s intercom. The speakers boom with the order, silencing many of the clones as they hurry from the room. With orders on their minds, Brothers fall into line one after each other with no other prompt.

Anakin’s heart pounds in his rib cage. What the karking hell was going on? 

He rushes from the bunks with the rest, turning down the corridor to the lifts and the main hanger. Hightop and Runner, both part of Kenobi’s wing, fall in behind him. No one exchanges a word. 

Their starfighters are ready and waiting for launch when they arrive. They split off towards their respective stations with only a salute for good luck. Only one of Anakin’s techs is there when he arrives, the tiny Weequay bustling around as fast as he can to do a final systems check. Anakin joins him, disconnecting the fuel lines and the mapping connections before staggering up the ladder for a system boot. 

Above them, the hanger doors open with agonizing slowness. He connects his tight-beam to the squadron channel and immediately winces at the heavy level of chatter. 

“Call,” Kenobi says over the line breaking through the jumble of chaos.

“CT-1217 standing by,” he answers without hesitation.

The chatter falls silent for a moment as the rest check in. They’re missing Punter by the end but Kenobi gives the signal for launch anyways. 

Anakin’s eye twitches. He has a bad feeling about all this.

The planet of Onderon itself shines with the glorious hues of life in deep tones of green and blue. Swirling pink clouds float over its surface reflecting the brilliant shine of a nearby star. It's a sight that makes Anakin’s heart lodge in his throat in awe; amazed that he has the chance to witness such a thing. Him. A slave from Tatooine getting to see the stars like he dreamed of a child.

“Stay alert,” Kenobi warns over the channel and Anakin’s amazement fades to horror like water splashing into the desert sand.

General Jinn’s fleet is burning. 

Star Destroyers float cracked and shattered into pieces across the inky darkness of space. Fragments flash in the light of the star, glittering like a thousand scattered pieces of glass. Flames eat away at broken control towers, lick out from the hangar bays and glow from the exposed corridors. The broken hulls of starfighters and support ships allike hang suspended between the larger remains, lifeless and darkened.

He knows, somehow and without a doubt, that there isn’t anyone left to rescue.

“All squadrons,” Kenobi says, his voice strained but level, “spread out. Look for survivors. There could still be-” 

“Enemy ship exiting hyperspace.” Commander Cody’s alarm overrides the squadron channel.

The warning comes only a moment before an staggering Separatist ships drops into realspace almost directly on top of them. The squadron breaks formation, fighters pulling up to avoid colliding with the massive ship’s surface. Anakin yanks back on the yoke, sending his fighter into a sharp dive to dip below its hull. His ship slides past deck after deck of sparkling lights and a huge set of gaping bay doors. Fresh craters and scorch marks marr the surface but enemy droid fighters spit out after him, tail him around the curve of the hull and out into the burning graveyard. For such a large ship, there aren’t as many as he was expecting. 

The squadron channel crackles with chatter as the first bout of turbolaser fire rips past the tiny fighters to explode against their Star Destroyer.

“Keep your attention on the enemy fighters,” Kenobi orders.

As if there’s time for anything else. They’re swarmed immeditalty, droids converging and tailing and circling every which way he goes. He hears a cry of alarm over the channel and the pin prick of a Brother’s life lost.

He fires his way through a swath of the slower droids as he feints towards the planet. “Karking hell,” he yells as one droid explodes close enough to his ship to rock the light starfighter.

“Keep that chatter out. This ship has already sustained damage. One good shot should finish it.” Kenobi says. He’s pulled up along side of Anakin.

They don’t acknowledge each other, simply falling into tandem side by side with the tips of their wings finding the same course. Anakin feels like a missing gear slipping into place. A click over this tight-beam ends the stream of chatter from the other pilots. They’re on a private comm.

Kenobi’s continued silence only serves to project his grief. There’s no playful banter or mild teasing like in the simulation. That had all been sucked away to be replaced by stalwart commitment.

Anakin finds that he can be content with either. So long as they’re- he loses his thoughts to the battle. 

Anti-fighter flak flashes on all sides as fighters swarm. His cockpit hums with energy as shrapnel clatters against the outside of his hull and the burn of his sublight engines rumbles through the small ship. The two battleships crowd the space around them exchanging turbolaser fire in a volley of sound and light. Everytime a new blast lights the vacuum of space near him, the scatter of energy slams against his starfighter. He rocks in his flight chair, intent on his purpose

They weave through this minefield, firing and swooping when necessary. Tri-fighter cannons rip through the spaces between them and they seperate, spinning in a tight spiral around each other, before swooping off in opposite vectors to rejoin in another skirmish among the burning hulls of the broken Star Destroyers

Bursts of flak surround their trajectory as they buck tailing droids and set a course for the curving hull of their Destroyer. The hot slice of turbolaser fire from the Sepertiest vessel explodes so closely to them that Anakin can feel the heat of it though the thin outer layer of his ship.

Kenobi tips his fighter into a roll that shoots him up along the Destroyer and over the top of its broad bow. They flash past the forward viewports; so close that they can almost make out Yularen standing by his post as they chase a squad of droids over and along the aft of the ship. Kenobi takes a shot and they explode one after each other in a shower of sparks. 

He’s dimly aware of the other starfighters from their squadron. And at some point, a few other fighters had joined them in the sky. He sees a delicate maneuver by Punter end with the explosion of a turbolaser cannon igniting on the hull of the Separatist ship.

But he feels that tiny prick of pain again when Loophole, and somehow he knows, collides with a droid fighter. Kenobi’s own pain flashes across his mind and he grits his teeth as they dive toward the planet. 

Anakin’s computer system chimes. “Missiles!” he calls out.

They lock onto his burning engines with little difficulty. He wobbles, threading between droid fighters, towering shards of melted control towers and dark starfighters. But they’re persistent and gaining proximity. They aren’t close enough, one slightly tailing the other, that a side roll will send them crashing into each other.

“Up ahead,” Kenobi says from Anakin’s wing. His steady presence calms Anakin’s mind.

Anakin spots it: an enormous chunk of rubble. “Copy that,” he says and exceleates. The behemoth looms in his sight and just as his body  braces for impact, he releases his dorsal fins to drop him below the broad metal and towards the Separatist ship. The closer missile, unable to change course, impacts against the debris and the other comes close enough to Anakin’s engines to engage its proximity explosion. 

His computer flares with warnings right before a sharp chunk of the debris, broken off  by the explosions, ricochets against his fighter. The side of his ship folds with the impact and punches into the cockpit. The blunt edges jam into his side, cracking through his clone armor and smashing with a dizzying strength against his ribs. He jolts with the impact, thrown off course, against his crash webbing. His head whips to the side with the sudden movement and slams into the frame of the fighter with a dull thud. The fighter’s guidance system blacks out and his cockpit goes dark.

He slips for a moment, his vision yellow and unnatural. He can still see the remains of General Jinn’s fleet floating around them. And he can still hear the crack of the lasers and the roar of the fighter engines. But can’t remember why… 

He closes his eyes for just a moment to rest and then-

“Skywalker,” Kenobi yells, his loud voice yanking Anakin out of his slump, “pull up!”

He blinks, the massive hull of the enemy ship filling his vision.

He reaches for the controls but his hand slips on the yoke. Despite the ocular assists in his helmets, his vision blurs and doubles. The few operational lights of his consol flicker and cross, dimming and brightening so quickly that he can’t keep the buttons straight. He groans, a deep pain in his head echoling down through his body. His ribs ache just like they had during his first Boonta Eve Classic. Distantly, he’s aware of something burning and the acidic smell of fried electrical connections.

“Skywalker,” Kenobi yells again. 

Anakin grabs at the controls, his hand steadier, but it's too late. He somehow avoids smashing his starfighter into the side of the Separatist ship but only just enough that he hurtles into the enormous main hangar bay. His vector is too sharp, through, and the hull of his ship scrapes and bounces along the decking as it slides and flips deeper into the bay. The screeching wail of metal against metal tears at his hearing and makes his head throb all the more.

He slides to a stop just before he collides with the back of the hanger; his heart pounding in his chest and his hands shaking with adrenaline. He tugs at his crash webbing, trying to wrestle it off. Its constricting his chest, making it hard for him to breath despite the aid of his helmet.

“General,” he says out of breath and panting but trying for levity “I’ve managed to infiltrate the enemy ship.”

A harsh press of gripping anxiety falls away at his words and he realises that it must be Kenobi’s.

“Understood, Skywalker,” he says over the comm. His voice shakes. “Status? I’m coming back around for another sweep.”

Anakin tugs on his webbing again. It doesn’t come loose. He peers down at the release mechanism; its partially melted. “The release is jammed. All flight systems are offline.” He jiggles the yoke but the guidance computer remains frozen.

“Weapons?”

“Operational.” He looks up and around through his smoke-blackened canopy. “But I’ve got eyes on a auxiliary reactor. Directly behind me. Kark.” His head pounds with blood.”If we can get a good blast into it, it should cause a chain reaction to the main power supply.” He drops back into his flight chair with a huff and immediately regrets his frustration fueled carelessness as a burst of pain stabs through his side.

“Standby for extraction,” Kenobi says, ignoring his outburst. 

Through the thin transparisteel of his canopy, Anakin can clearly hear the click-click-click of the enemy droids as they approach. He pulls up his fighter’s light weapons, aims as best he can with no propulsion, and fires. The fighter’s lasers are much stronger than a regular blaster and they make quick work of the flimsy droids.

“Obi-wan, don’t-” Anakin starts, firing again as another small group of droids approaches. He shifts in his seat and can’t stop the sharp huff of pain that escapes his lips as his ribs shift. 

“Standby,” Obi-wan says again. It sounds like he’s talking through gritted teeth. 

Anakin hears him before he sees him. The popping of his decelerating engines echo off the metal interior of the hanger. His repulsors fire, a burst of sound, right before he careens to the decking with a screeching shriek. But before the small ship even finishes its slide, Kenobi opens his canopy and flips out, his lightsaber lighting in an arching flash of light and his robes billowing out around him.

The oncoming battle droids open fire, calling out nonsensical commands to each other. Kenobi parries their shots, twisting his saber with a flick of his wrists and deflecting the bolts back at them with practiced ease.

Anakin burns at the sight of him. 

“Skywalker,” he calls out. Flinging out an arm, the canopy of Anakin’s fighter squeals and ripps clean off its moorings. Kenobi wastes no time in scrambling up onto a wing to lean over the edge of the cockpit cut the webbing clean off with a delicate pass of his saber.

Anakin struggles up out of the smoking cockpit clutching at his side as he drops to the deck. His head throbs at the movement. “The reactor” he says, looking  back over his shoulder.

“All in good time,” Kenobi says. He climbs up into his own fighter, the lightsaber still lit, and reaches down with a hand to help Anakin up. 

Anakin grits his teeth to hold back another groan as he settles into the warm flight chair. But almost instantly, he’s reminded of their last encounter in this very seat. He can’t help the blush that heats his face and he’s almost certain Kenobi knows exactly what he’s thinking by the way his shoulders tense as he sits. 

It would be almost funny if it weren’t so dangerous. With so little space, Kenobi has less room to maneuver the fighter. His legs are folded to avoid this knees interfering with the throttle even though his back is pressed flush up against Anakin’s chest. Anakin closes the canopy without speaking just as a few blaster shots ping harmlessly off the transparisteel.

Thoughts of the last time they touched haunt the cockpit. 

Anakin drops his forehead against the back of Kenobi’s neck and sucks in a deep breathe. “Let’s go,” he says in a quiet voice. It's a wonder his voice box even picks up the words to broadcast.

Kenobi’s hands tighten around the throttle. “Skywalker,” he says as he twists around as it trying to turn to look at Anakin’s face. It's impossible, in such a small space, and he only manages to press on Anakin’s ribs.

Anakin sucks in a breathe in a sharp hiss and jerks back.

“You’re wounded,” Kenobi exclaims. An immediate spark of regret pricks him and Anakin knows that it's all from the Jedi. He could never regret anything that happened between them. Not ever.

“It's nothing,” he insists. “Let's blow this karking thing out of the sky and go.”

Like a snap of a levy releasing the Dune Sea, Kenobi’s thoughts overflow across Anakin’s mind. He’s filled with a burst of longing and confusion. And of sorrow. Kenobi sags in his seat, slumping forward and the tension draining from his back and shoulders. “Yes. Of course.”

He sits up straight with resolve, jostling Anakin enough that he winces. “Apologies,” Kenobi says, a hint of humor back in his voice. “It's a bit more cramped than I’m accustomed to.” 

Anakin scoffs. “Your robe takes up too much room,” he says. He makes a movement to wrap his arms around Kenobi but falters and lets them rest on the tops of his legs instead; ashamed at such inappropriate thoughts during a battle. He grits his teeth wanting a hit of spice to take the edge off.

Kenobi’s fingers fly across the controls as he maneuvers the ship around. More bolts from flimsy battle droids bounce off the hull and the canopy. “Perhaps,” he says; his voice filled with something akin to cheer. He flips open the weapon yoke and primes the dual laser cannon for an overloaded burst.

WIth a click, Anakin’s comm comes back online to rest of the squadron and the bridge. “Commander Cody,” he hears Kenobi say both over his tight-beam and in-person, “prepare to move the ship away from the enemy vessel.”

“Understood, sir,” comes the Commander’s curt reply. “All fighters full retreat.”

The Delta’s repulsors stutter as the starfighter hovers for too long. The ship wobbles but Kenobi doesn’t falter as he lines up the shot without the aid of guidance. Anakin squeezes his own knees as Kenobi’s anticipation hits a peak before his thumb presses the trigger. The fighter jerks before stabilizing as twin blasts push the vessel backwards with the force of their discharge. The energy crashes into the reactor, sending sparks and plasma flying out in arches. A few droids wander too close on their way to intercept the fighter and are instantly knocked away from the pressure surrounding the burn.

The blasts hit the upper bulb of the reactor and it shatters with the pressure. In an explosion of light, it collapses down onto the lower portion, breaking through the magnetic charge. An arch of electricity races up the side of the terminal followed by a secondary explosion as the conduit snaps and releases. An energy wave rocks through the hanger scattering droids and supplies.The walls around them buckle with the pressure as a chain of explosions pops one by one along the reacoter base.

Their starfighter flips with the shockwaves sending them careening out towards the mouth of the hanger. Kenobi rights the ship, pressing forward on the yoke and releasing the dorsal fins to send them shooting out into battlefield. A fireball follows in their wake as the reactor reaches critical and the starfighter’s alarm system wails at the massive discharge of heat. Another shockwave collides with the flimsy ship from behind, accelerating them forward as such a speed that Anakin’s head snaps back against the hull of the cockpit. 

He blacks out, his last thought of pain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. The porn was stong with this one. I toned it down the best I could. 
> 
> Poor Qui-gon didn't even get a chance to be an ass in this one. I killed him off even earlier than usual!


	4. Chapter 4

Anakin drags his eyelids open feeling like each lash is crusted to his face. The room seems blurry at first and too bright. He flinches under the burning lights over his head, trying to cover his face with his arm. His limbs feel heavy and stiff as if he’d been out at the cantina too late. Awash in white and the brightness, he blinks to rid his eyes of spots.

“Try not to move, trooper,” says a clone to his left. DNK stands over him, tablet in hand. “You’ve suffered multiple rib fractures and a second degree burn on your left side. Luckily, the shrapnel missed your heart and lungs. Not to mention the concussion and subsequent swelling. You’re back aboard the Destroyer now. You’ve been unconscious for about an hour.”

“What?” Anakin croaks, his voice harsh and scraped raw.

The battle washes over him then and he tries to sit up. The abrupt appearance of the Separatist ship. The missles. Landing inside the enemy hanger.

His arms almost wrapped around Kenobi.

He buries his face in his hands and freezes. It's his own skin under his hands. “No,” he says, heart pounding in his chest and voice stuttering. “No, no, that’s not – I can’t – where’s my helmet? I need my-“

He claws at the skin of his cheeks. There's a bandage wrapped around his forehead and bacta patches on one of his cheekbones from where his head collided with the struts in his fighter. He rips at the batch, trying to the peel the sticky residue from his face. “My helmet,” he murmurs, dazed. “Where’s my helmet?”

DNK cuts him off with the sharp burst of a hypo in his bare arm. “Calm down, trooper. It’s done. The General... he’s on his way now.”

The drugs activates quickly in Anakin’s system and he slumps over in the bed, his ribs burning with the movement. His buries his face in his hands and inhales with a croak. He’s been stripped out of his armour and bio-suit and shoved into a thin shirt and shorts. He stares down at his hands, turning them over and around to look at his palms. He doesn’t recognize them. 

“No,” he moans again. “My armour…”

“You’re not in a good state of mind, trooper,” DNK says with compassion. His voice sounds a thousand light years away. 

Tears roll down his cheeks, taunting him. He wants to scream but his mouth flaps open. The sedative burns in his veins. He squeezes his eyes shut, longing for darkness again. 

Anakin’s skin prickles with heat.

He feels Obi-Wan’s bright presence before he hears the sound of the door hiss open. “Skywalker, I’m happy to-“ He stops, his eyes wide for a brief moment of surprise before they narrow as Anakin raises his head. A dark wave of confused anger fills the air and Anakin chokes on it as if a rough hand squeezes around his throat.

“DNK, report.” Obi-Wan says, his eyes on Anakin’s face.

“Skywalker has stabilized. My initial reports on his status have been addressed and he will heal within a matter of weeks with sufficient nutritional and medical supplements. Currently, he will need to be kept under observation for his concussion but his ribs should heal up nicely with limited physical action.” 

DNK stop, clearing his throat. “Ah, according the human baseline, he is otherwise in perfect health.”

“Thank you. You’re dismissed for the moment.” Kenobi says without a hint of his thoughts.

DNK nods and gathers his tablet. He doesn’t look back at them as he leaves the room. 

Not even the smooth hum of the hyperdrive breaks through their silence. The Destroyer must still be in orbit over Onderon‘s surface. Anakin knows that the majority of the crew are running repairs. If he weren’t in this bed, he would be helping weld new metal plates to the outside hull where the turbo lasers melted through the shields. Or maybe he would be personally fixing Kenobi’s Delta after the damage it sustained in the dogfight. 

They would probably meet afterward once they were both off-duty. Maybe they would talk; a real conversation about nothing in particular. Maybe about Kenobi’s Master Jinn.

Or maybe they would wind up back in Kenobi’s private room where no one could see him naked and flushed. 

But it's all gone now.

Anakin’s hands feel cold and lifeless lying in his lap. He can only bear to look at the the Jedi insignia on Kenobi’s shoulder. “Please say something,” he says. His voice chokes and cracks. He sounds so different. Too different. Kenobi probably doesn’t even recognize him. “Anything.”

“I don’t know who I’m talking to,” Kenobi says after a heartbeat. “Is this CT-1217 who came under my command before the humanitarian mission on Dantooine or is this someone else all together?”

“I’m the same, Obi-Wan,” Anakin says. “The real CT-1217 died on Tatooine.”

Obi-Wan tenses, his armor creaking as he shifts. He snaps, his voice harsh like the crack of a whip: “That is not a name you are permitted to use.”

Anakin squeezes his eyes shut, hot tears burning the back of his eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t expect to- to find you… to find all of this. I just wanted a way off that slum planet and…” He trails off, his words hanging in the air. His excuses mean nothing, he realizes, under the cold burn of Kenobi’s gaze.

“How did CT-1217 die?”

“He was shot, in an alley. Muggers probably.” Anakin can’t look at him.

Obi-Wan’s hand moves to hover over his saber hilt. “And your name?”

“It’s Anakin.” He looks back up to Obi-Wan’s face. “Anakin Skywalker.” 

Kenobi’s feelings drop in Anakin’s heart and he feels the harsh sting of his own betrayal. Its as if his heart were cracking open and he’s unable to keep the fragments from falling through his fingers. 

They stare at each other, Kenobi completely unmoving. His lips press together in a thin line and his beard looks like a red slap across his face.

Kenobi’s presence shivers and he takes a step forward, “Skyw- CT-12-”

The door hisses open again and the Inspector strides in all flashing robes and brilliant white smile. “Very well done, trooper!” He bellows, “I’ve heard that…” 

He seems to recognize the incongruous sight of Anakin, not a clone, propped up on the bed and fades off. His eyebrows shoot up on his forehead as his mouth parts, his face a silly exaggeration of surprise. “Oh my!” He cries out. “This is not a Clone.”

Kenobi physically jerks out of his stiff state with a lurch and finds his voice. “No, Senator Palpatine. It seems as though…” 

Palpatine is already turning to the wall with a wide sweep of his robes. He pounds his fist down on the emergency alert system and a the wail of the alarm flares up with a flashing strobe light. “Security to Medical,” he says in a hard voice. Any trace of good cheer has been wiped away from his grandfatherly looks. 

Anakin’s grabs at his head, the lights and sound overwhelming. He’s dizzy, his vision blurring and blacking out. The familiar headache from in the fighter slams into him again like a wild bantha and he groans in pain. 

Palpatine turns back to Obi-Wan and points a demanding finger under the Jedi’s nose. “Why hasn’t this been reported yet?” he snaps. “This man is an enemy infiltrator and a hostile threat. He must be apprehended at once!”

Kenobi, to Anakin’s shock, sneers back at the inspector. “Senator,” he says in a firm voice, “This man has served as an active member of my battalion-” 

The inspector cuts him off by striding over to the bed and wrapping one wrinkled hand around Anakin’s arm. He tugs, stronger than he looks, and hauls Anakin from the bed with enough force to send him sprawling to the floor. His legs give out from under him the instant his bare feet hit the smooth cold flooring and his ribs scream in pain at the jostling movement. 

Kenobi steps forward, the rising sandstorm of his anger swirling around Anakin’s ankles. His hand is back to a vigilant position and wrapped around his saber. “You will not treat a soldier of the Grand Army in such a way, sir,” he says. His words pierce through the cry of alarm.

Anakin closes his eyes, his head spinning. 

Palpatine says something back “...not a soldier…” but his words are masked by the heavy pound of armored boots at the doorway.

Squinting through his pulsing vision, Anakin sees enough to recognize the practiced configirment of the security detail. They’re armed with blasters, their faces covered with unmarked helmets to keep their identity hidden. He opens his mouth to defend his action - he just wanted off that dang planet, wanted a chance to prove himself, wanted to make his mom proud, didn’t mean for all of this to happen - but his tongue is heavy in his mouth, the sedative taking its final effect.

Even in his disorientation, Anakin can feel Kenobi’s anger flaring in a sweep of hot air across his face. “Stand down,” Kenobi says in a tone well known on the battlefield. “This man is injured and will be treated accordingly. I will not have this disrespect on my ship.” 

Palpatine releases Anakin’s arm and he falls face-first onto the floor. The Clone Troopers halt, waiting for further instructions.

Anakin looks up at Kenobi. His vision swims and he has to blink, long and hard, to clear his eyes. 

Kenobi’s face is no more than a mask, however. Any moment they had of reconciliation completely gone. He looks down at Anakin and his emotions vanish like they had never been there at all. “Take him to the brig,” he orders. “He is for the courts.” 

The security clones pull Anakin to his feet with gentle careful hands around his upper arms. They allow him time to gather his legs beneath him and take one hesitant step forward before sweeping him from the room. Anakin mangages to turn his head away as they pass by Kenobi in the tight quarters. He’s too ashamed to see his General’s disappointment up close. 

Palpatine follows their retinue out into the general medical bay and then out the doors and along the halls to the tiny set of cells. Kenobi must follow them, but Anakin can’t hear the Jedi’s soft footfalls over the stomp of the troopers’ boots and the heavy rustle of Palpatine’s robes. 

Other Brothers stand to the side as they pass. Most of them wear their helmets but Anakin see their shock in the way they stutter to a halt in the midst of their mindful walking and tilt their head to the side in confusion. For those who are bare-faced, their raised eyebrows and open mouths demonstrate their confusion. No one questions the procession, however, as good soldiers follow orders.

Anakin keeps his head down as they pass underneath the burning bright lights of the corridors; partly because the fluorescent makes his head throb and partly out of his own shame. He knows that these clones will have no knowledge of CT-1217’s deception at the moment but it's only a matter of time before word spreads of his true identity. He can’t bear to see their familiar faces and have them know of his betrayal.

Just the mere thought of it makes him trip and stumble, his legs failing him again. The troopers at his sides keep a firm grim on his arms, however, and do not let him fall. 

The brig itself is empty. To Anakin’s knowledge, they’ve never had a prisoner contained in the cells. He doesn’t have his helmet to find out. There is, at least, a padded cot and fresher in the cell. Its clean, all burnished metals. The clones help lower him to the cot. Thankfully, the lights are dimmer without the mass of white, gleaming hallways to reflect off of. The dark walls and floors ease his pounding headache.

Anakin doesn’t look up from the floor, however. He sees the edges of Kenobi’s white, but scuffed, boots on the edge of his vision.

The energy field spanning the wide entrance crackles into existence as the clones leave him.

“Will this be enough to hold him?” Palpatine's pompous voice grates on him like sand in his shoes.

“This cell is built to hold a Sith, Senator,” Kenobi says. His voice is level. Anakin can’t make out his true feelings. His presence around them is cold and impassive. 

Palpatine doesn’t acknowledge the response and continues on. “This will reflect poorly on your inspection, General Kenobi.” He must sneer at Kenobi’s title, his distaste reflecting in his tone. “To have a imposter within your ranks is most shocking.” 

Kenobi says nothing and Palpatine continues. “I would expect a full investigation when we return to Coruscant. I, of course, will be contacting the Senate and the Jedi Council immediately to solicit your return. Your clones will also be questioned at length to see how far this treachery extends. But to think that this deceiver was underneath your command this entire time! Who knows what sabotage he could have been inflicting concealed by your incompetence.” 

Anakin hears his robes rustle as he departs. He pauses just outside the door to the brig, not turning around to address the General directly. “You may consider my previous offer to be reneged. I have no interest in fools. General Jinn would be ashamed.” 

He leaves them alone as the door hisses shut behind them. 

Anakin squeezes his eyes shut and drops his face into his hands.

The silence is unbearable but he has no words to break it. He wonders what his mother might say. Would she try to ask for forgiveness?

She never would have done something so stupid in the first place. 

“What?” 

Kenobi’s question makes Anakin look up. The single word bounces off the cold surroundings. Anakin’s face must reflect his confusion because Kenobi asks again.

“What did you say? Just now?” Kenobi asks, his voice oddly soft from the otherside of the red barrier. He looks distorted through it. Like he’s wavy around the edges; unstable. “About someone?”

Anakin grimaces. “I apologize, sir,” he says, his voice low. “It wasn’t an excuse.” 

Kenobi doesn’t say anything for a moment. He steps closer to the barrier, almost touching its surface. “You’ll be Court-Marshalled as soon as we touch down on Coruscant. The Senator will abide by his threats.” 

“And you’ll be investigated. For what? For someone else’s stupid decisions?” Anakin snaps back, his head and his side aching. 

“For my own,” Kenobi retorts back. His anger expands across the meager space between them before he tucks it away again. “I chose to-” He cuts himself off, dragging a hand down over his face. 

He’s quiet again before he speaks in an even tone. “If you really are CT-1217 - Skywalker - the clone that I’ve.... That has been under my command since Dantooine, then you will know that it has only been my negligence, my actions-” 

Anakin knows that he isn’t so apathetic. It's all a horrible act. “Kriff, Obi-Wan,” Anakin spits, he stands, clutching at his side and hobbling a bit to the barrier. Hunched over like this, he’s Kenobi’s height. It's almost painful to see him upclose, without his clone helmet and armor, and with his own eyes but still be unable to touch him. 

“Don’t you karking dare blame this on yourself. No, you shouldn’t have noticed. Excuse you but I think I’m pretty karking skilled at not getting caught. No one would’ve known if I hadn’t have crashed the karking fighter and been injured. No one was going to notice. Not if the karking brothers I slept and ate next to every day didn’t see a thing. 

“So don’t go and say that you should have been a better general or a better Jedi or whatever nonsense you were about to say. I made my own decision to put myself in this kriff fix and I’ll take the responsibility for it.”

He takes a second to inhale, his side almost numb with the pain. DNK would have scolded him for disobeying orders. Anakin supposes that he’s never been a good soldiers. Good soldiers follow orders and Anakin never did. “None of this is your fault. Not me, not the battle. And not General Jinn. That karking Senator wouldn’t know disappointment if it smacked him in the face.”

Kenobi’s eyes narrow to slits and he loses his poilite veneer with the snap of his words. “What did you say?” 

“I felt it, you know. Right when we dropped out of hyperspace and you saw what was left of his fleet. You karking lost it.” Anakin steps even closer to the barrier and leans in, his own temper rising above the pain of his body. “But don’t think for second-” 

“Enough,” Kenobi snaps. 

Anakin stills under the order. 

The Jedi seems to gather himself in the silence. He squares his shoulders and forces his arms to hang by his sides as if he were unaffected by Anakin’s words. “You will be tried by a military court on Coruscant as you are a civilian serving with or accompanying an armed force in the field under Article 2(a)(10) fo the uniform Code of Military Justice. Until that time, you will be allowed medical treatment and sufficient nutrients. You will have an armed guard stationed outside at all times.” He pauses to inhale. “Do I makes myself clear?’ 

Anakin's gaze drops back to the floor. “Yes,” he says with little feeling. 

Kenobi nods, almost to himself instead of Anakin, and turns towards the door. He stops before he reaches it, his hand hovering over the controls. “I don’t expect,” he says, his words muffled as he faces away from Anakin’s cell, “that you would withhold any information about our involvement from the Courts. To do so would be in contempt. It is I who must live with the responsibility of my own actions.” 

He doesn’t leave any time for Anakin to respond and flees the brig with only the hiss of the door behind him. 

Anakin watches it through the haze of the energy barrier until his ribs can stand it no more and he needs to hobble back to the cot. 

He expects to lie awake with his churning thoughts for company but he falls asleep as soon as his head touches the mat.

 

*****

  


If Anakin were at full health, he might have gone mad locked in the brig. But with his injuries, he spends more time sleeping than anything else. Moving around for more than a few laps about the cell leave him winded and struggling. Because of his concussion, DNK or another clone aid wakes him after only a few hours of sleeping for a cycle and he doesn’t even get the chance to dream, not really. 

He spends his time on the cot shivering in the cool, circulated air of the ship. Without his bio-suit, his skin pebbles and the hair on his arms stands on end. He rubs at his limbs to keep them warm but the movement only jars his side. He knows he isn’t in any danger, that the room isn’t actually that cold, but he misses the sun more than he ever has.

His medically-appointed shorts and shirt are distinctly unhelpful, he thinks with a frown.

There is little point in thinking about his future. He’d only come to the unhappy understanding that he’s probably slated for execution or torture. They’ll probably think he’s some sort of plant by the Seppies and not some stupid slave from Tatooine who got way too high and thought joining a galactic war would be a great idea. 

So he focuses on the cold instead.

The inspector must have filled with the Senate right away because it isn’t too long before he feels the hyperdrive spool up and release. This time, he doesn’t reach out to brace himself as the ship jumps into hyperspace.

The trip from Onderon to Coruscant takes four full cycles. Guards come and go occasionally bringing him food and water. It's strange that his time in the cell is also the first time he’s eaten anything other than packaged rations. The hot food warms his stomach and gives him a momentary burst of optimistic energy. It fades quickly enough when the guard takes away his finished tray and the door falls shut behind him again. 

They don’t speak to Anakin when they come and go. They’re always wearing helmets, unmarked ones, and watch him from the side while he eats. Anakin doesn’t know if they know who he is. He wonders if the Brothers think that Skywalker died in the battle. Or maybe that he’s still in medical with some horrible injury. He knows that rumors of his imprisonment would have propagated throughout the ship by now. Clones have nothing better to do than talk about each other most of the time. However none of the guards ever call him by name or show any indication that he’d betrayed them all. They only treat him with simple consideration and otherwise leave him be. 

It's probably all Kenobi’s doing. 

He thinks about Kenobi along with the cold. He can’t help it. His mind latches onto one wild fantasy after another. He thinks about a universe where he might have been a Jedi too and how they could fight alongside each other in this war without any pretenses. He imagines another world where he meets Kenobi as a trader coming through his tiny town on Tatooine looking for a mechanic to fix his speeder. In that version, they kiss with unhurried patience in his tiny apartment over his shop and fall asleep in each other’s arms. He also imagines them meeting after this whole war is over. In that one, Anakin has a chance to confess his secret when the clones have been granted rights and there's no Military Commission to oversee their ranks. 

Anakin also wonders what’s become of the General in this universe. Has the Inspector put him in a different cage? One made for a Jedi and not a clone? Is he still commanding the ship? Or has Commander Cody taken that task instead?

He tries not to reflect on their last words. He longs for the opportunity to speak to him again. He can barely remember what he said over his haze of pain. Anakin knows that he was careless with his words, that he flung them at Kenobi like a Jawa would throw a pile of dung at a passing speeder. But he just needed Kenobi to see- 

The door hisses open. It's not his usual time to eat so Anakin rolls over on the cot. He tries to tell himself that he isn’t disappointed that it isn’t Kenobi at the entrance.

“Skywalker,” DNK says in greet as he enters with a case full of medical supplies. “I see you’re looking more pink than before.” 

Anakin sits up, shrugging and secretly thrilled at the prospect of a conversation, no matter how health-related it might be. “Yeah, I feel better.”

“Yes, processed foods aren’t the most nourishing.” DNK uses the keypad to dissolve the energy barrier, steps into the cell and sets his case down in front of Anakin on the cot. The main door to the brig closes with a hiss. 

The clone kneels down and opens his case and begins to pull out various materials in their own plastic baggies. He sets them aside as he goes. “How are your ribs?” He asks as he works.   

Anakin manages to spout out a weak “Ribs are better, I guess,” as he watches. He hasn’t spoken aloud in a few cycles, he realises. His voice sounds strange without the filter of the helmet. 

DNK seems satisfied with his preparations and he looks up at Anakin from his crouched position. “We’re nearing Coruscant,” he says without any other prompting. “So you don’t have much time before the trial.” 

Anakin’s face falls. Of course he knew it was coming, but it seemed distant enough in the vast reach of space. “Oh,” he says and stares down at this hands. 

“I’ve taken the liberty of reviewing your medical files at length.” 

Vaguely, Anakin thinks that he should blame DNK for outing him in the first place. But it wasn’t really like that, he knows. He did this to himself, with or without DNK’s involvement. “I’m going to be executed, aren’t I?” 

DNK shrugs, the motion easy in his Medical uniform. “I only know that Clone Troopers are Clones and you aren’t.” 

“No, I’m not.” Anakin blinks away his sudden tears. He opens his mouth to tell DNK that he has no idea what he’s doing, that he had just wanted to prove something -anything- of himself and instead the whole story comes out. He tells him about seeing the Clone cut down on Tatooine, about picking up the armor and heading to the base and about his transport off the planet to the Destroyer for the first time. He also tells him about meeting Trapper and Wooley and Boil and Waxer and then Loophole and Punter and Axis and everyone else. About how they’d become more important to him than any friends he’d ever had back on that desert rock. 

DNK stays silent throughout his short tale and only speaks after Anakin looks back down at his hands, the words having dried up. “Have you told the General this?” 

Anakin flushes with shame. “No. I lied to him instead.”

Nodding, DNK reaches for his medical scanner. “I’m only a clone, but its sounds to me like he should hear all of that.” 

He’s right, of course. Clones always are, Anakin thinks. 

“But I came here to confirm something for myself.” 

Anakin’s gaze jerks up in surprise. “My headaches are better,” he says slowly. 

“No,” DNK says as he fiddles with the tiny machine. It pings a few times as the screen flashes. “I saw something in your bio scans that looked out of place. After I pulled you out of that armor, I did a full diagnostic since you’re different than any brother. Got some bits we don’t have.”

“If you’re referring to my balls, than I think you can read more about how they work on the holonet,” Anakin says, his voice hard despite his predicament. 

DNK laughs, a sound that is startlingly bright in the dim cell. “No, Skywalker. I’m talking about your tracker.” 

Anakin jerks back on the cot, his hand flying to his shoulder. He knows that he can’t feel it, but just the thought of the deadly device is enough to make his muscle ache all the way to the bone. He hasn’t even thought about it since before he joined Kenobi’s wing. “E chu ta!” He yells. 

“Keep your voice down,” DNK hisses, the device still pinging as his eyes narrow down on Anakin’s shoulder, “I’m trying to save your ass.” 

Stilling, Anakin fumbles around his words. “What?” he ends up asking stupidly as DNK gently peels his fingers away from his shoulder. 

“I said, I’m trying to help you out.” The clone firmly presses on Anakin’s upper body to prompt him to twist so he can get a better view of the area. He tugs upward at the hem of Anakin’s shirt and pulls up up over his chest and arm to bare his shoulder. Anakin hisses as his ribs twist.

“I saw it come up on your scan. No piece of shrapnel is in a shape like that. And you’d of had to come to medical earlier if it was. Its too big to have closed up on its own if you were hit.” He runs the scanner over the smooth expanse of skin and it beeps steadily. He squints at the screen. “Sith’s balls. It is a chip.” He sounds almost excited.

Anakin huffs. “Yeah, I karking knew that already.”

DNK raises an eyebrow at him and Anakin sighs. “I built a scanner when I was ten to find it. But I couldn’t remove it without triggering it. And then my mom and me were sold-” he stutters. “We moved and it didn’t matter as much after that. Not really.”

It had mattered, of course. But not enough to see his mom unhappy if he succeeded in removing it. Cliegg Lars was a nice enough man. And he did right by his mother. He allowed Anakin to live in town and run his own game as long as he sent some of his earning back to the homestead and didn’t ask for any handouts. He gave Anakin’s mom a good life and left him alone. Anakin would have been a fool to remove the tracker and ruin his mom’s good fortune. And a fool wasn’t good enough to be Shmi’s son.

“Well,” DNK says, almost excited despite his classic grisled clone facade. “It’s gonna save those balls you’re so fond of.” 

Anakin’s eyes narrow. “Yeah? How?”

“Well, to put it simply, you aren’t a citizen.” At Anakin’s stoney look, DNK helps him back into his shirt and tugs it down to cover the bagages around his chest. “Yeah, I’m in the same ship, remember. But a Brother just isn’t a citizen of the Republic. You’ve got it even better. You’re somebody’s property. Goods.”

Anakin has to look away. “Yeah, I get it. How does this help me?” 

DNK starts packing up his case, a smile on his face. “It means that you can’t be tried. You aren’t a person. Only a person can be given a trial. Especially a military tribunal. You just have to be returned to your owner.”

“My owner…” Anakin repreats. He tugs at the hem of his shirt, making sure it covers him again, chafed, and looks back up at DNK as the clone stands. “And you’re going to tell someone all this?”

“You’re a good Brother,” he says, turning back toward the door to the brig and turning the energy field back on with a pass of his fingers over the controls. “Brothers don’t leave each other behind, Skywalker.”

Anakin looks down at the dark floor of his cell. “I left a Brother to the streets,” he says quietly. “I deceived a whole battalion of Brothers for my own selfishness. I’m not a clone.”

DNK pauses before he palms open the main entrance. “Maybe,” he says. “But you saved our lives out there. And that’s something.” 

He leaves Anakin without another word.

 

 

****

 

Anakin must have slept through the ship deceleration out of hyperspace because when he wakes, the steady thrum of the drive has stopped. It isn’t long afterwards that the door to the brig opens and two undecorated guards enter.

One hands him a pair of soft shoes, almost closer to slippers than the stocky clone boots Anakin’s been used to. 

He raises an eyebrow but puts them on anyways. “These aren’t standard issue,” he says. 

The guard surprises him by responding. “They’re from the head engineer. Wears the same size as a clone so they should fit you. He said you did good work.” 

Anakin flushes, momentarily overwhelmed by the gesture from a man he barely knew. He wiggles his toes testing the fit. 

“Then everybody knows,” Anakin says, looking down at his feet. His legs look so pale after months of being in space.

The guards say nothing in response but motion for him to stand. They clip his writs into binders behind his back and teather his feet together with an arm-span of rope. Its enough room for him to walk comfortably but no more than that.

He has a vague memory of being auctioned off with his mother after Watto had lost too much money betting on the pod races. They’d been sold as a pair as he was too young, maybe seven, to be of any value on his own. His wrists had been bound behind his back with coarse rope and they’d kept a bag over his face until he and his mother been pushed out onto the stage in front of the crowd. 

He closes his eyes in relief when the guards leave his face uncovered.

They escort him through the halls with swift certainty to the shuttle bay. Thankfully, they don’t pass many other clones in the corridors. But everytime they do, Anakin has to look away. He can’t bear to see their judgement. It's almost worse to pass his old starfighter station: the space is empty, his fighter lost in the battle, but the equipment is still stattered about as if his techs are simply waiting for him to return to run diagnostics. 

Of course, the shuttle itself offers little respite as Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi, General of the Two-Twelth, is already standing inside when they arrive with his head bowed and stripped of his armor. He looks thin with only his simple Jedi robe and boots and his lightsaber gone. His hands are unshackled and he has his own set of guards, four of them with unmarked helmets, as if they’d be able to stop him if he decided to escape. 

He looks up when Anakin steps up into the LAAT/i. 

They don’t speak but Anakin can’t drag his eyes away. He tries to think about how glad he is to see Kenobi again; about how he wishes things could be different. He concentrates on pushing his thoughts through his skin like water through rough filter to fill a glass with all his swirling emotions. There’s grief and remorse; love and affection in that glass. 

Kenobi watches him with a flat, pale face and closes his eyes. His head falls back down to this chest. Anakin can’t feel anything from him.

The trip down to Coruscant's surface from the Destroyer goes smoother than most of Anakin’s descents. There isn’t any flak flying from every direction and no enemy fighters zipping through and taking aim. He can even see out enough to spot the never ending skyline of the planet expand off into the distance as the come closer. The planet glitters at first as they creep closer before the shapes of massive skyscrapers and desert-wide factories take up his limited view. The air around them flashes with passing ships and fighters. And as they get closer to the ground, speeders of every make and model fly past in a blur of a thousand different colors. Anakin shuffles closer to the thin viewports for a better angle. 

The other occupants don’t share his enthusiasm. His guards stand at firm attention at his sides. Kenobi doesn’t look up and his eyes are closed.

They begin landing procedures all too soon near a massive building. It looks like a giant overturned bowl surrounded by the spilled grains of other nearby structures. The wide expanse surrounding them teems with shuttles, personnel and droids. Clone troopers with red insignia patrol the area, weaving in and out of decadent civilian yachts to escort elaborately dressed retinues of all sorts of sentient beings in and out of the massive entrance. The air traffic thins out as they approach with only a few crafts coming in for a landing.

Of to the side, an enormous gathering spills out across the wide promenade with more and more people arriving in hordes. They’re gathered around a tall balcony draped with flags and banners bearing the Republic crest. Armed guards line the crowd and stand at attention, ready to snuff out any unrest.

While Anakin watches, a squadron of clones exit the massive building and line up in front of the crowd below the balcony. They stand at attention, each with a sizable launcher resting on their shoulders. He gets one more glimpse of a figure on the balcony surrounded by elaborately dressed blue guards before the LAAT/i drops too low and Anakin can no longer see. 

“The Senate,” whispers one of Anakin’s guards so that only he can hear.

Anakin’s eye twitches and a cold sweat breaks out over his palms. He curls his fingers and tries to set his face in the same mold as Kenobi’s mask of indifference as they disembark. 

A red guard is waiting for them with a data tablet. “Jedi Knight Obi-Wan Kenobi,” he says, “You are to await the Chancellor and the Jedi High Council. Please follow me.” 

He spins on one heel without even a salute or waiting for a response and Kenobi and his escort fall into line behind him.

Anakin feel his heart catch in his throat. The sun on his face feels unwelcome for the first time and he yearns for his armor as if it were a chance to go back and change the past. “General,” he calls out regardless of their watchers.

Kenobi stops, his shoulders tense. Anakin can feel the barest of flex in the man’s presence, hidden beneath the surface of his veneer. Like if Anakin would press against him, he’d be sucked into a pool of quicksand, never to escape. 

He swallows and takes a step forward. “Obi-Wan,” he says, almost a whisper.

The red guard turns back towards the still group as a silent reminder and the spell ends. 

Anakin watches them walk through the entrance columns until he can no longer see Kenobi’s bright head over the din of activity. He drops his head. His knees feel weak. 

“C’mon, Skywalker,” says his guard on the left. “Let’s go.” His voice is oddly soft and he nudges Anakin with his hand instead of the butt of his rifle.

They go through a different entrance; a smaller one sequestered behind a tangle of ornate pillars. The door leads to a service corridor with unfinished ceilings overflowing with pipes, electrical conduits and air supply systems. Maintenance workers scurry about under bright lights with equipment and carts as Anakin and his guards side-step around them.

Everyone jumps as a sudden muffled booms echoing through the halls. 

“That’s the memorial service for General Jinn,” says the clone guard. “They’ve cleared the airspace around the Rotunda and are firing off a salute.”

“Twenty-one launchers,” says his other guard. They start walking again and the rumbling continues on for a long series of bursts. Anakin remembers the harsh flare of pain when they’d found General Jinn’s fleet and wonders if Kenobi is feeling that pain again. 

The first guard ribs Anakin in his uninjured side but he winces anyways. “Afraid of a little noise, Skywalker? Or you need a hypo? For being a pilot you don’t do well in transport.” 

Anakin stops to stand gaping, open mouthed, in the hall as the workers stream past him. “Trapper?” He asks, almost breathless. 

The clone freezes and Anakin can almost imagine his expression under his helmet. The other clone laughs. “And Wooley,” he says. He taps his helmet twice. “Couldn’t let you get off without saying goodbye.” 

A grin spreads out across Anakin’s face and he feels his heart lighten for the first time in days. “Karking hell,” he breathes out. 

Trapper grabs at Anakin’s upper arm and tugs at him gently forward. “Let’s go. We still have a job to do. And you look out of place as it is.” 

He’s right. A few workers turn to stare at Anakin as they pass. He looks ridiculous in the loose medical shorts and slippers amongst the pressed uniforms and occasional senatorial robe. Thankfully, they eventually turn off the main corridor onto a smaller hall. 

“You’re being held in on the cells until your- until someone comes to pick you up,” Trapper says as soon as they’re alone. Their booted footsteps echo off the smooth walls. “Guess someone decided that you had to go back to Tatooine.”

“Yeah. DNK helped me out.” Anakin mumbles. 

Wooley’s steps slow until he pauses in the middle of the hall. Trapper stops, his hand still on Anakin’s arm, and turns back to face the other clone. “What’s wrong?” 

Wooley shuffles his feet looking down at the floor. “Is…” he starts, his voice quiet even through his voice modulator, “Is it true that you aren’t...”

Anakin can guess what he means to ask. “I’m a slave, Wooley,” he says. He has to close his eyes for a moment. He can’t remember the last time he needed to say it outloud. Maybe back when he still lived on the Homestead and that local girl had gotten too interested and started talking about binding ceremonies and empty farms nearby. He remembers pushing her away, almost physically, and spitting out those hateful words into the sand. He’d asked Cliegg for permission to live in town the next day and was gone within the week. 

Trapper’s hand clenches around Anakin’s arm.

Anakin can’t look at them. “I saw a Brother killed and I thought I could get off that planet and start again. I was high on spice. It was stupid. I’m lucky Cliegg- my owner- didn’t come after me when he found out. He could have hit my detonator whenever he wanted.”

Neither Trapper or Wooley have anything else to say. Anakin feels like he’s said everything he can. He wishes that he could have said it to Kenobi. 

A loud pop followed by a clatter interrupts their silence and all three of them turn instinctively towards the sound. Something crackles in the hallway up ahead, like the sound of electrical wires fizzling, and someone shouts before the voice breaks off with a pained wail. 

Anakin takes a step forward, listening.

“The General isn’t going to like this,” says a mechanized voice.

“We don’t have to tell him.” 

The blood in Anakin’s hands turns cold. “Karking battle droids,” he hisses under his breath. 

Trapper and Wooley both tighten up into a battle-ready position with their rifles pointing forward and their fingers trained on the triggers. They fan out against opposite walls, their backs pressed up against the smooth facade and their fists up to hold position. Anakin copies them as fast as he can with tied feet. 

Wooley points two fingers forward and they cover each other as they slip around a bend in the hall. There's an open door only a few paces ahead. 

“I’ll give the go-ahead to the General,” one of the droids says. 

They hear the crackle of a comm unit and the blue light of the holo before a deep voice echos around throughout the hall. “Report. Have you secured the last security station?” 

Anakin’s almost stumbles back in surprise. He looks over at Trapper across the hall with wide eyes. “Dooku” he mouths. The man’s voice had always been recognizable after months of propaganda campaigns on Tatooine through the Hutts before Republic forces took over almost two years ago. Then, his face had been posted through the city as a warning. 

Trapper must not have recognized it right away because his hands tighten around his rifle and he falls back against the wall.

Nudging Wooley, Anakin jerks his head forward towards what must be the security room.

“Affirmative, General,” a droid says. “We have secured the area.”

“Good. Keep it that way until the mission is complete.” The comm fizzles out. The blue glow disappears from the doorway.

“Well, that was easy.” 

Anakin scowls and nudges Wooley again. 

They look over at Trapper and Wooley give the signal to advance. Trapper slides up against the edge of the door while Wooley dashes past it to the other side. Anakin’s fingers ache to help but he has to stay back. He watches silently as the clones turn the corner of the doorway with their rifles up. 

They fire in short bursts and Anakin hears an exclamation of surprise from one of the droids before it clangs against the ground, silent. 

Wooley pokes his head back around the doorway. “All clear,” he says. 

The security room holds a gruesome sight. The few workers that had been posted there are riddled with imprecise blaster shots. One Weequay is crumpled on the floor next to a shattered cup and a pool of spilled and still steaming caf. Another human is bent over his desk facing a wall of holo monitors while a third human has his hands wrapped around a tiny sidearm with a slash across his throat. 

Anakin has to swallow down the disgust in his throat. 

“Sith’s hell,” Wooley says as he surveys the room. 

Trapper rolls the two on the floor onto their backs and arranges their limbs so they’re straight and reaches out two fingers to close their eyes. Wooley follows his lead and lowers the one in the chair to the floor as well. 

“Did you hear the broadcast,” Anakin says. “We’ve got to warn somebody.”

Trapper turns towards the wall of monitors to look over the controls. “I’m no expert on any of this,” he says.

Wooley points past Anakin’s shoulder. “Look,” he hisses so suddenly that his voice modulator fizzles and pops. “That’s Count Dooku.” 

“And the Chancellor. Stars.” Trapper echos.

They all watch in horror as one of the monitors picks up Dooku haunting the shadows behind Chancellor Valorum on the balcony above the memorial service.

“Where's the volume?” Anakin gasps. “What the kark is he saying?”

Trapper fumbles over the controls, swearing. “There,” he yells and twists the nob just as Valorum’s voice echoes through the speakers.

“...with a heavy heart that we must say farewell.”

He pauses to allow the crowd time to applause. They’re subdued, the reason for their gathering somber.

“Yes,” Dooku draws in his pompous way. “We will be saying farewell today. Farewell to a millenium of a bloated Republic and a grand welcome to a new government.” He fully emerges from the shadows and comes up from behind the Chancellor’s shoulder. He ignites his red lightsaber and holds it up to Valorum’s neck. “A strong government.”

The crowd below erupts into gasps and then silence. The troopers surround the mass of people shift to train their blasters on Dooku but Anakin knows they’re far too away to take an accurate shot. 

Anakin, Wooley and Trapper all lean forward in anticipation. 

“I believe, Chancellor,” Dooku says, “That it is high time that you and I discuss a new treaty.” 

“Kark!” Anakin yells.

A muffled explosion rings above their heads and all three of them duck under the desk; pressed up against each other in the small space. Anakin stuffs his head between his knees the best he can and breathes through his nose, squeezing his eyes shut. Another rumble rolls through the air. This one is farther away and not as loud but it still leaves the floor heaving. The building gives one great shake, some dust rattling loose from the ceiling, but otherwise seems unaffected. 

Wooley and Trapper glance at each other in the dark space. Anakin rests his head on his knee when the shaking stops.

When they crawl out, Dooku and Valorum are gone from the balcony and the security holos. But the crowd sparks and throbs with panic packed in too tight and eyes wide with fear. People cry out, a mass of voices, while some stand dumbly by, their heads pointed up towards the sky and their mouths open. They point, almost in unison, just as another explosion rattles the room. 

“What the hell is going on?” Wooley yells.

Trapper points at one of the monitors focused on the airspace around the Rotunda. He doesn’t say anything and his silence draws their attention.

It's like a horrible flashback to seeing Jinn’s fleet above Onderon, decimated and on fire. Only this time, explosions ripple through the clouds and the sonic boom from the turbo lasers echoes across the blue Coruscant sky. Another explosion jars the building as, on the screen, a chunk of rubble from a ship in the atmosphere crashes down outside the rotunda while flashes of fighters barrel through the skyscrapers surrounding the Senate grounds trailed by droid tri-fighters. 

“Dooku’s brought his fleet,” Anakin whispers. “He’s going to force the Chancellor to surrender.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger! This chapter would have been way too long otherwise. 
> 
> I did go back an add just a few sentences in chapter 1 to make a section of this more cohesive. But its nothing that you have to go back and read it again.
> 
> There was a case the went before the U.S. Supreme Court about trying a civilian in a military court becuase he worked as a military contrator. Just FYI. 
> 
> And remember, I'm always open to contrstrutive critisim. This was a plotty chapter which isn't normally my thing. :)


	5. Chapter 5

Anakin remembers sitting in his mother’s kitchen at the Lars Homestead when the first Republic Star Destroyers entered Tatooine airspace. They had already lived there for some time, although he can’t remember exactly how long, but his mother had officially married only a few months before. They’d been eating lunch; the air cool under the thick dome compared to the burning sand outside, and watching the holo broadcast in silence.

The broadcast showed the sky alight with light and sound; a mass of movement and saturation. It had seemed so far away then on the tiny screen. The world outside their tiny homestead very clearly a galaxy apart to Anakin. The blaster fire and the screams as real to Anakin as a Senator from Naboo: completely beyond his small, young understanding.

But here, in the belly of the Senate, the reaching consequences and crushing anxiety takes ahold of Anakin’s heart in an all-to personal vice. His brothers are out there. 

Kenobi is out there.

The sky blooms with bursts of cannon fire and explosions of energy against the cruiser shields. Fighters whip around the towering Coruscant skyline, booming as they bank and roll. Fire from their cannons scatter across the broad walls of the buildings as enemy tri-fighters splatter bolts about without a care for the civilians affected.

They watch, stunned and staring with wide eyes, before Wooley says, through gritted teeth, what they’re all thinking: “Commander Cody’s up there.”

Anakin wrings his cuffed hands behind his back. “What about the rest of the fleet? Who else is on Coruscant?” He asks.

“Some of the Jedi Council. They were supposed to meet with the General and the Chancellor tonight. Their ships are in orbit. The Commander had a meeting with their Captains before we descended.”

Trapper fiddles with the controls on the console, toggling through the channels and recordings. He picks up where Wooley left off by saying “We’ve got to find where they took the General.”

Anakin nods, picking up on the idea and his heart tripping with the relief of finding a viable solution. “He can rescue the Chancellor from Dooku.” His eyes dart over the screens looking for a hint of red hair or a flicker of white robes.

“There!” Wooley yells. He points to a screen high up on the wall.

Trapper and Anakin peer up to get a better view. The angle is off and only part of the hall is in view with its blue carpets and ornate walls. Anakin can only make out the edge of Kenobi’s tunic. He’s buried beneath a trooper on the floor; probably one of his escort guards. His lightsaber is in full view having looked like it rolled out of the trooper’s hand when he fell. 

No one is moving.

“Kark,” Anakin curses under his breath. “We have to get to him. Is he unconscious?”

“Never known the General to be knocked out in a battle,” Wooley says quietly. They all look at each other and the two clones wring the rifles in their hands with nervous apprehension.

“He’s not dead,” Anakin snaps. He would know it, he tells himself. He would know if Kenobi had been shot. He didn’t feel anything. Not that pin prick of pain like he does when a Brother dies. And certainly not the burning heat of a supernova star like he would if-. “He isn’t,” Anakin says again, more firmly. “Just knocked out.”

They look at him, their faces betraying little, and then back at the monitors. “We should go check,” Trapper says, nodding to himself. “We can’t leave a brother behind.”

Anakin turns and shoves his cuffed writs under Trapper’s nose, desperate to get moving. “Get these karking things off of me,” he mutters, looking off to the side in embarrassment. His need to hurry outweighs his shame of having to ask in the first place, however, and he knocks the metal together with a dull clang.

Trapper and Wooley glance at each other conveying their hesitancy. Anakin knows they’ve all - all three of them - have come too far to turn back now. They aren’t going to fight him when they know he’s right.

Sometimes, good soldiers don’t follow orders and they all know if.

Trapper keys in a code to the side of the cuffs and they fall to the floor with a clang. Anakin rubs at his wrists in a self-conscious gesture; more to feel his own skin than to rub away any remaining rawness. He only remembers being shackled one time before when he and his mother had been transported to the Homestead. He’d been young enough to brush it off as a mere uncomfortable experience then, but now he feels the ghostly weight of the ties as if they’re still hanging around his wrists.

After all this, he supposes, he’ll feel them again when the Republic sends him back to Tatooine like the piece of property he is. But he’d rather that happen- knowing they’d won - than the alternative.

He glances at the screen once more with Kenobi’s body spread out across the floor. He’d definitely prefer the shackles than the alternative.

He pushes that thought away and reaches down to steal a discarded droid blaster. “Let’s go,” he says in almost a whisper.

They make their way up through the various staircases and down long, swooping hallways before emerging out into the upper part of the Rotunda where light spills in through giant windows and the air is cool and dry. They pass almost no one in the halls. A few junior aids scurry by, their hands wrapped so tightly around their piles of datatables that their knuckles strain with the effort, but they duck into a room as soon as they catch sight of Wooley and Trapper. A few bureaucratic workers in plain uniforms doge past them on their way down the hall in the opposite direction but they’re faces are pale and their eyes filled with fear. They don’t stop to question them.

Anakin knows that the halls are far too still. In a building meant to be a hub of activity, there aren’t any voices filling the rooms or droids whooshing past with piles of datatablets. He can almost hear the soft tap of his thin shoes as they hurry across swaths of carpets and shiny, patterned floors. Trapper and Wooley, in all their armor and gear, sound like a stampeding herd as their heavy boots thunk with each step. Each whispered word of direction from Trapper sound like a shout in the emptiness. 

However, they also don’t come across any squads of Battle droids either. Despite the continuous sound of the battle outside, the halls look like everyone decided to take the day off. Not a drapery out of place or a stray scorch mark from a blaster marring the wall. Only the thunder from the outside and the occasional explosion from the battle overhead break through the stillness of the air. 

Anakin grinds his teeth when they finally see Kenobi and his retinue spread out across the wide hallway. The Red Guard who came to meet them looks like he was shot first. There's a clean entry hole in his chest armor right above his heart and he’s on his back, his rifle still in his hand, with his arms and legs flung out from his body. One of the other two guards that had accompanied them from Kenobi’s ship leans up against a nearby wall, his body slumped over and his rifle dangling in his lifeless hands. Blaster burns tarnish the smooth surface of the wall about his position. A shot through his helmet oozes a slow flow of blood. Anakin doesn’t want to look underneath his blank helmet to see which one of his Brother’s faces is underneath. 

Kenobi himself is crushed underneath the limp body of the other guard from the two twelfth. There’s a small trickle of blood pooling beneath his head but otherwise his face is pink with health and the fine threads of carpet near his mouth stir with each of his soft breaths.

Something unclenches in Anakin’s chest.

“Must have jumped in front of the shot meant for the General,” Wooley says in the quiet of the hall. “I would’ve if it were me.”

Trapper nudges Wooley in the side, always set on the job at hand. “C’mon. That’s enough. Let’s get the General up.”

The two clones spread the other clone out on his back off to the side of the hall where he wouldn’t be stepped on. The shot that had killed him had blistered the white armor of his chest plate but hadn’t gone all the way through. Wooley mumbles a few words under his breath before they move to the Red Guard and arrange next to their comrade. There isn’t much else they can do.

Frustrated at his own helplessness, Anakin kneels down in front of the clone and reaches his hands under the Brother’s chin tug on the man’s helmet. It’s unmarked, as he was on guard duty, and Anakin is horribly reminded of the real CT-1217 in the dirty alley on Tatooine. He’d been ungrateful, then, for the gift he’d been given. He squeezes his eyes shut for an instant remembering how he’d stripped the clone of his dignity as well as his armor and left to rot in the heat and dust. 

“Thank you,” Anakin says in a whisper. “Thank you for saving his life.”

He tugs the helmet free from the man’s head. Underneath, no tattoos or scars decorate his skin and Anakin does not recognize him. The man’s glassy eyes are half-lidded, and his mouth flops open. Anakin sets the helmet aside and moves the clone’s arms and legs so that he is gripping his rifle in front of his chest. Using two fingers, he fully closes his eyes. “Thank you,” he says again; this time, for his own benefit.

He slips the helmet over his head. It's a different fit from his own. Months of wear had shaped CT-1217’s cheek pads into a mirror of his own face. This helmet isn’t as worn in and Anakin struggles to situate it correctly.

The heads-up display lights up immediately, however, and updates Anakin with as much information as it can given the fact that he’s lacking his full bio suit. “Wooley. Trapper.” Anakin says. His voice echoes from the speakers in a garbled and fuzzy echo of the clone’s real voice.

“You look a right mess,” says Trapper, tapping his own helmet.

Anakin pulls the helmet off again. “Yeah, it doesn’t work the same way without the rest of the kit.” He spots the General's lightsaber on the floor and scoops it up, tucking it under his arm.

Then, a burst of coolness, like the first sip of fresh spring water, sweeps across his skin just as Kenobi groans from behind him. “Skywalker?”

“General!” Anakin yells, rushing to roll Kenobi over onto his back. He cradles the man’s head, supporting his neck without disrupting his head wound. Wooley and Trapper both move to help the General sit up and Anakin lets him go with reluctance.

Kenobi clutches at his head, squeezing his eyes shut before trying to focus on the clone faces in front of him. He grimaces when he lowers his hands and they come away sticky with blood. “Report,” he says with groggy slowness.

Anakin maneuvers to his side to help steady him. Kenobi’s body is warm through his robes and under Anakin’s bare hands. Alive. He has to force himself to pull himself away and to focus.

Of course, Wooley is already on the task. “Wooley reporting, sir,” he says saluting even from his place next to Kenobi on the floor. “You were ambushed, sir. By Separatist droids. Count Dooku is on Coruscant and has captured the Chancellor. The Separatist fleet is in orbit around the planet.”

“And the Republic fleet?” Kenobi asks, struggling to fold his legs up. He attempts to stand, sways, and then lowers himself back to the floor. Trapper reaches out as if to steady him but pulls his hands back at the last minute. Anakin isn’t as conservative and cups Kenobi’s elbows to add support as he sits down again.

Wooley continues. “Engaging with the enemy, sir. Many Jedi Council members and their Star Destroyers were in orbit due to your- ah… the hearing, sir.”

As if to punctuate his words, the Senate building shakes as another piece of large debris hits the massive platform outside. Dust rattles down from the ceiling and a distant, but shrill, siren cranks up from somewhere in the structure.

“Force,” Kenobi mutters. He suddenly tilts his head and looks straight up and into Anakin’s face.

Anakin swallows but doesn’t look away. He struggles to find his words. “We think Dooku took the Chancellor prisoner in his office,” he says with more confidence than he feels. He can sense Kenobi’s mind against his against his, pressing but steady. He shivers at the weight of it “We’re going to go after him.”

Kenobi raises an eyebrow. There’s more color returning to his face and his eyes look bright in the light of the hall. “And am I invited to join in this display of brutish and reckless abandonment of protocol?”

Wooley and Trapper falter beside him. They glance at each other over Kenobi’s head like they think they’ve been caught disobeying orders. They have, of course, forgotten about delivering Anakin to a detention cell; a fact they seem to suddenly remember.

Anakin smiles, though, familiar with Kenobi’s familiar teasing tone. “Of course, General. Wanna come?”

He feels Kenobi’s answering excitement in a shot of electricity down his spine. The General smiles back but it almost looks feral with the line of blood matting the side of his beard. “It’s most certainly a trap.”

Shrugging, Anakin stands and extends his hand. He tucks the helmet under his other arm. “I’m willing to spring it.”

Wooley and Trapper step back and away from them, clearly struggling to place this camaraderie between their superior officer and Brother, as Kenobi takes Anakin’s hand. He struggles to his feet, wincing. “Of course you are,” he mumbles. He looks up at Anakin. “Pilots,” he says with a fond, grumbling tone.

Anakin looks down at their hands. It's the first time they’ve felt each other’s skin. Kenobi’s hands are rough, scattered with callouses from too many battles with a saber or at the yoke. There’s a thin, healed scar along the meat of his thumb and one of his fingers is bent like it had been broken. Even next to Anakin’s space-bleached skin, Kenobi’s pale complexion makes Anakin’s hand look tanned and warm. His own fingers look even rougher, though, with thick joints and scraped cuticles. Rough, like the hands of a slave.

Something whispers in the back of his mind.

“Skywalker,” Kenobi says gently, rousing him; and then even more quietly, despite their audience, “Anakin.”

Blinking, Anakin shakes his head and releases Kenobi’s hand. “Sir,” he says with firm determination “The Chancellor shouldn’t be kept waiting.”

Wooley and Trapper look back and forth between Anakin and Kenobi, their hands twisting around their rifles. Kenobi, however, soothes their apparent fears with a nonchalant wave of his hand through the air. “Of course, Skywalker. Although I’m sure Count Dooku would also appreciate our prompt presence. He’s never been a patient man.”

“We think Dooku’s taken the Chancellor to his office, sir,” Tracker says, piping up from behind them. “That would be the most defensible room.”

Kenobi blinks, looking surprised at Trapper’s comment. “Yes, well. That would make sense.” He takes a moment to glance around at their surrounds. “I believe I know the way.”

“Wait, sir,” Anakin interjects. He holds out Kenobi’s saber. “You’ll be needing this.”

Kenobi hesitates before grasping it, a sad smile transforming his face into one of melancholy. “Yes. Thank you Skywalker.”

The two clones pull their helmets back on as they go with Trapper in the lead position. Anakin trails back a bit, content to follow, with his helmet safety under his arm. Despite the serious nature of their situation, Kenobi’s presence is warm beside him. Anakin can feel the General’s mind with clear focus as they move quickly through the halls. He falls into place next to him, moving without conscious thought.

“Wooley, may I use your communicator?” Kenobi asks as they progress. “I’d like to contact the ship.”

Wooley passes his gauntlet to Kenobi and the General wastes no time in strapping it on his own wrist. “Commander Cody. This is Obi-Wan.”

“General!” Comes the surprise response. Cody’s tiny blue form appears over the comm device. The holo flickers in and out with distortion from the battle above. “You’re injured, sir!”  

“No, Cody, I’m perfectly fine. Just a small hit on the head. Very clumsy of me.” He sounds exasperated but there’s a tiny smile hidden in his beard. “I’m currently heading to Dooku’s position. Please alert the Jedi Council of the situation.”

Cody’s back straightens like a sting is pulling him up tall. “Of course, sir. We will continue with our efforts in orbit. The fleet is currently at a stalemate with the Separatist forces. I will apprise you of any changes.”

“Thank you, Commander. Please ready an extraction team for standby. We’ll communicate coordinates. Obi-Wan out.”

They sneak up hallways and grand staircases, occasionally catching a view outside windows. They don’t see anyone else in the hall, most having found cover by that point most likely, and skirt past only a few groups of battle droids on their way to the upper floors. They avoid the lifts which takes time but allows for more space for maneuvers if need be.

They don’t speak on the way expect to give quick orders or spots and the purposeful silence is broken only by the constant pops and explosions from outside.

Kenobi’s memory serves correct, though, and they reach the ornate doors of the Chancellor's office with little backtracking or distractions. They stay crouched behind a corner, scouting the area. There aren’t any droid guards stationed outside which makes Anakin nervous. He glances at Kenobi but the General is focused on the door. He motions for Wooley to approach. They can’t hear any movement or voices from inside; unsurprising for the office of a politician.

“Scanners detect nothing from inside,” Wooley says once he returns. “No sound. Nothing.”

Kenobi looks unaffected by the news. “It's no matter,” he says, waving a hand through the air. “I know that Dooku is behind those doors.”

Anakin can feel something behind the door as well. It reminds him of the burst of horror he felt when the Separatist that destroyed General Jinn’s fleet burst out of hyperspace. He had thought that the roll of his stomach was the result of evasive maneuvers but now he isn’t so sure. His eye twitches and he rubs at it impatiently.

“Do we have charges?” Kenobi asks.

Trapper pulls two form his utility belt. This is it, sir. We weren’t fully equipped for a guard rotation. He gestures to his blank helmet.”

“Despite their appearance,” Kenobi says, reaching for the charges, “these aren’t blast doors. The Chancellor’s office was never designed to be a shelter in the event of a hostile takeover. Although, I’m not sure if Dooku is aware of that or not.”

Anakin shakes his head. “Does it matter? We’re going in anyways. Trap or not.”

“Very true,” Kenobi agrees. “I’ll set the charges. Skywalker, Trapper. You two provide cover. Wooley, your first objective is to secure the Chancellor. The office has two chambers: a main vestibule with little furniture that then opens up into the main office with a large desk and a seating area. From what we know of Dooku, I’d imagine that he’ll be seated at the desk. He has his ego to soothe, after all.”

Trapper scoffs at the image but Kenobi continues. “Wooley, make sure the Chancellor’s head stays down. If you can extract him from the room. I’ll distract Dooku myself.” His hand strays to his lightsaber at his waist. His face twists for an instant, losing it placid expression. “If only I had been more aware earlier. The guard had this in plain sight- I could have-“

Anakin lays a hand over Kenobi’s fingers, quieting his movements. “Those Brothers did their duty,” he says. “Like I would have.”

Trapper pipes up almost instantly. “Any of us would have done the same, General.”

Kenobi looks almost sad at this, his lips crease into a thin line and he doesn’t look up from the saber and Anakin’s hand. Anakin can feel his mind working, his emotions jumbled.

Anakin glances at the lightsaber. He’s heard about Jedi in the field, wielding their sabers like spirits of battle. But he’s never seen Kenobi use his other than to cut Anakin’s webbing when he was trapped in the enemy vessel over Onderon. A bubble of unease rises in his chest.

Kenobi glances at him suddenly, raising his eyebrow. “Is something wrong? You seem…” he falters, seemingly remembering their audience.

“I haven’t seen you use that before,” Anakin says, looking pointedly at the saber.

Looking suddenly amused, Kenobi’s eyes crinkle up with a smile. His soft felicity blooms under Anakin’s skin. But all he says is “Thank you for your concern, Anakin. Truthfully.” He looks pleased. It’s a face Anakin hasn’t seen for too long.

Anakin clears his throat, his face a bit hot with embarrassment. He tries to refocus. It’s difficult with Kenobi’s eyes on him. “Those Brothers gave us the opportunity to fix this mess. Let’s take it while we can.”

Wooley nods, enthusiastic, and hefts his blaster. “We’re ready when you are sir.”

Kenobi’s squeezes his fist around the hilt of the saber and he gives an almost imperceptible nod. “Yes. You’re right.” He stands, the flurry of his emotions falling away like dusty traveling cloak. “Trapper. Skywalker. If you will.”

Anakin clambers to his feet and pulls himself to attention. Wooley and Trapper follow him, saluting and turning to the doors to take up position. Anakin rests a hand on Kenobi’s armor-less shoulder briefly, before shoving his borrowed helmet down over his face and following behind them.

Trapper sets himself on one side of the doors and Anakin takes the other. He holds the blaster up, steady, and watches as Kenobi sets the charges at the seam where the two doors meet; the weakest section. Anakin grits his teeth and squeezes the blaster. “In position,” he says over the tight beam to distract himself.

Wooley confirms from his position across the wide hall from the doors as Kenobi settles in next to him away from the blast zone. Trapper gives the General physical go-ahead from across the door from Anakin. “All clear.”

The flash of light from the explosives hits Anakin’s vision before the deafening boom of the explosion and the rush of displaced air. His visor filters out most of it, keeping his senses from being overwhelmed, and allowing him to dart into the office beyond the hole with his blaster raised and firing; Trapper at his heels.

He fires in a short burst taking down two battle droids already prone on the floor directly inside the room before throwing himself against a protective wall and taking aim at another in his sights. From his position, he can see clearly into a select part of the main office and out through the windows overlooking the city. The room they’re in has a few scattered chairs, more flimsy than practical, with various shelving units and decorative statues decorating the space.

Trapper mirrors him on the opposite side the vestibule relaying their movements over the tightbeam. “First room secure. Continuing on into main room now.”

Anakin focuses in on the body of a droid sneaking into his narrow range in the main office and fires in another short burst. He can hear the alarmed cries of other droids from the room, all scrambling for orders, over the tired clicking of their heels on the marble floors.

Vaguely, his registers the dark walls and elaborate paintings decorating the space. The windows let in enough natural light that his visor doesn’t assist his eyesight but his electronic aid swings across his vision searching for movement in the shadowed recesses.

“The Chancellor?” Wooley asks. They’re still outside the doors, waiting for the right moment to make their move.

“Negative eyes on the Chancellor,” Anakin responds. “Negative on Dooku.”

“Press forward,” Kenobi says. “Don’t give them a moment.” Anakin suddenly feels Kenobi’s presence at this back, his chest close against Anakin's side. Kenobi’s whisper reverberates through the augmented hearing in his helmet.

Trapper motions for Anakin to move, pointing with two fingers into the main office. Anakin steps forward without hesitation, crouching low to the ground, to peer around the corner. He catches sight immediately of the desk Kenobi mentioned before and the Chancellor’s form ducking for cover atop a sofa cushion.

“There they are! Blasted scum!” Shouts a mechanized voice and Anakin barely has a moment to re-focus his attention before a small squad of droids is firing on his position.

He pulls his head back behind the wall, hoping it's thick enough to stop the blasts. “Chancellor spotted. On the sofa. Due East. He looks like he’s passed out. No sign of-”

Anakin hears the sharp sound of a lightsaber igniting before the wall next to him crumbles in a smoking pile of rubble. Dust from the ruined paneling and sparks from severed electrical conduits explode into the air and spreading throughout the room in a dense, hot cloud.

Instinctively, Anakin ducks out of the way at the noise, rolling off to the side in an uncoordinated move that leaves his injured ribs smarting. He crashes into the space next to Trapper, and his helmet barely stays affixed to his head. He senses, rather than sees, Kenobi throw himself backwards and away from the wall at the same time.

Kenobi isn’t down for more than a moment, though, before he’s unclipping his saber form his utility belt and rolling back towards their position with his blade drawing out the a sharp hiss of superheated air. He crouches for brief instant before pushing himself off the floor and raising his saber just as the red blade fully bursts through the wall and meets Kenobi’s with a sizzling pop of sound.

The wall itself finally explodes outwards, showering the room in debris and thick dust. The room darkens considerably, the fog of particles blocking the light from the office windows in the room beyond and the flickering sources in the ceiling. A wrenching screech pierces the air as metal supports and rebar bend and twist like snakes. Some of their edges are red-hot, sliced by Dooku’s blade, and others are sharp, broken fragment like rows of knives.

Dooku himself emerges through the dust with a wave of his hand and he pulls his saber back for another pummeling blow against Kenobi’s low defensive position. Their blades meet again, hissing and sputtering, and Kenobi’s form shakes with the force to the blow.

“Wooley!” Anakin yells over the tightbeam. He pulls up his blaster and takes aim at a battle droid over Dooku’s shoulder. “The Chancellor!”

Wooley is already rushing past the chaos and into the office beyond pulling his own weapon up as he goes.

“Trapper,” Anakin instructs, “Cover him.”

“On it,” Trapper returns, standing to follow Wooley.

Dooku seems to suddenly notice the clones and he brings his saber up in an arch. His face, obscured partially by the dust and filtering light, looks cold and murderous as a sneer stretches over his long features.

“Get down,” Anakin yells, raising his blaster to fire.

Trapper drops to the floor like someone cranked up the gravity as Dooku’s blade cuts through the air where his head would have been. Trapper doesn’t waste a moment, however, and shoots up from the floor immediately, disappearing into the dust with a short burst of gunfire.

Anakin takes the chance to fire. His grip on the borrowed blaster shakes and his helmet falls too far down on his head. He tries to push it back up so he can see properly but the action causes his aim to go wide and his shot splatter uselessly across a far wall.

At the same time, Kenobi rears up from the floor, his green blade swooping through the dust. His face is smeared with dirt and grime and there’s a bruise forming on his cheek where he must have been struck by debris. He looks determined, however, his eyes narrowed and his jaw white with tension.

Dooku side steps their combined attack with a graceful step that puts his saber chasing Kenobi’s chest. With his free hand, he twists at the air and Anakin’s blaster flies across the room to land uselessly against the far wall. Kenobi falls back again, a thin scorched line spreading up his tunic from his stomach to his collarbones. The cloth falls open instantly to reveal a burnt and cauterized wound bubbling under the heat of the plasma saver. Kenobi’s own saber falls from his hand and extinguishes when it hits the floor. He stagers back, his knees buckling, until he trips over a chunk of rubbles and falls to floor.

“This is what the Republic sends to me,” Dooku says, mocking. “One Jedi and a handful of clones not even worth their armor? Disgraceful.”

“Chancellor secured,” Wooley says over the tightbeam. “Calling in an extraction through Commander Cody now.”

“Understood,” Anakin says, a bit breathless. He holds his side and presses down on his ribs. He bites his lip before adding. “Don’t wait for us. The Chancellor is more important.”

Wooley doesn’t respond immediately. “Yes,” he says, pausing. “Understood.”

Anakin feels his stomach lurch at the confirmation. He thinks of his mother’s face. He hates it when he makes her cry.

Dooku frowns, his attention seemingly distracted, and his eyes narrowing.

Anakin glances at Kenobi’s pale face. It's so unlike his mother’s. Her’s is drawn and tired; deep lines etched into her forehead and around her mouth. Her skin is dry and brittle from too many years of being scoured by sand and harsh words. Kenobi’s cheeks are flushed with colors, his eyes narrowed in anger, and his skin soft with good nutrition. But in that moment, they look the same to Anakin. Two people he cares the most for. Two people he’s letting down in one moment.

He ignores the ache that curdles through him when he moves. He shifts his legs beneath him and shoots up from the floor, his mind made up. He’s already sealed his own fate but he won’t let Kenobi suffer in the same way. Anakin puts his shoulder down in preparation for contact. He feels the intention of his movements rattle his way up through his body like a physical ache.

“Skywalker!” Kenobi yells, his voice choked with dust.

Anakin lunges.

Dooku sneers again, refocusing, and casts his arm out in a broad arch towards Anakin. Abruptly, his body feels torn in two, the forward motion of his inertia directly conflicting with Dooku’s will. Anakin’s eyes widen, his mouth parted in surprise as he floats suspended in the air, before Dooku’s push flings him across the room.

He collides with a decorative shelving unit, slamming into the wood and transparisteel shelves with a cry of pain. The piece of furniture crumples around him with a sharp clatter. The force of it rips his helmet from his head and his forehead collides with the frame. A cry rips from his throat as he lands in the glass. It cuts his bare palms and the backs of his legs sending shooting pain up his nerves. He gasps for breath, the air forced from his lungs with the brunt on the impact.

He hears Kenobi’s cry out after him. The other man’s fear overwhelms Anakin’s senses like a suffocating bag over his head.

Dooku chuckles, turning his attention back to the Jedi again. “Not even a clone, it seems. My, the Republic must be desperate. Although it seems as though you live up to your reputation, Knight Kenobi. What did the Council say about you? That you repeatedly compromise the Code for your own gain? You must admit, that this looks quite bad. Such a display of emotion over another creature. Such is hardly the Jedi way.”

Anakin tries to re-orient himself. He blinks rapidly, trying to focus in on Kenobi’s blurred form. He pulls his shaking arms and legs underneath him, wincing as his skin catches on the remains of the shelves. “Kenobi,” he croaks, his breath still recovering, “Kenobi.”

He hears his tightbeam cackle from where his helmet lies a few paces away. “Extraction of the Chancellor underway,” says Wooley. His voice is faint from the speakers but Anakin can make out the sound of voices from the adjacent office and the hum of a LAAT/i. The windows then, Anakin can surmise. Trapper and Wooley were successful.  

Anakin blinks again, the world tilting, and closes his eyes for a moment of pain before trying to re-focus again. The room spins around him. He concentrates on helping Kenobi. Trying to think of a way to get themselves out of this karking mess.

He can’t think, though. He can’t even catch his breath.

Stand up. He has to stand up.

He can see the way Kenobi’s hands hover over his split chest. He’s kneeling, his back straight but pain etched in his every expression. The red stain spreads across his robes, a deep bloom of color against their pale weave. He’s looking straight at Anakin, his eyes wide.

He speaks as if reciting a memorized speech, his voice faint as his eyes find Anakin’s face. “The Republic values ingenuity and creative minds. Not mechanical responses to careless orders.”

Anakin blinks rapidly, sucking in a huge gasp of air and coughing at the dust and debris scratching his lungs.

Kenobi turns his attention back to the Dooku, his fire returning. “Something you wouldn’t know anything about, Sith,” he spits.

Dooku looks almost startled for a moment before his eyes narrow. Something dangerous erupts into the air and Anakin shrinks back at the poisonous feel of it.

“Creative minds?” Dooku says, enunciating each word in his arrogant draw. He takes a step towards Kenobi on the floor. “You destroyed my flagship, you Jedi vermin! I saw the clone on the security holo. Working on your orders! To think that the Republic has stooped so low to condone suicide runs. To think that you would lecture me on obeying orders without thought! Did guilt get the better of you? That you had to come back for your precious tube-born? I was barely able to escape the blast with my life.”

Anakin pushes himself up from the remains of the cabinet as glass and broken bits of polished wood crack under his hands. Scrapes and cuts mar his palms and forearm and blood trickles down to his fingers in tiny rivulets. “Wait,” he says rasping. “It wasn’t him.”

Neither of them glance at him. They each raise a hand simultaneously and Anakin feels a clap of energy explode outwards in an instant of movement. It pushes Anakin back down again like his legs had been ripped out from under him.

He tries to stand again, twisting his face to see. His knees shake.

Kenobi looks tired, though, from his position on the floor. His face pale and lips chapped. He drops his hand almost an instant after he raises it, exhausted.

Anakin struggles to stay upright, gritting his teeth. His body shakes with the effort as he pulls himself up onto his feet. His side aches again and he wraps his arm around himself. “It was me,” he says, louder this time. He tries yelling but his voice is hoarse. “It was me! Leave him alone!”

Dooku seems to notice him again and raises an eyebrow in condescension although he doesn’t look away from the Jedi on the floor. “Really, Kenobi,” he says in a mild tone. “To hide behind the back of a civilian. This is dishonorable even for you.” He raises his lightsaber. The tip of it hovers in front of Kenobi’s face, vibrating and sizzling.

Anakin reaches for the clone helmet in the shambles of the cabinet. He pulls it gingerly out, shaking the glass shards off. “No,” he says again, louder this time with purpose. He suddenly knows what to do. Exactly what to say. Something is tugging at his movements, directing his lips to form words.

He jams the helmet over his face. It pulls on his hair and darkens his vision for a moment before the heads up display comes online. Despite the fact that it doesn’t fit quite right, it feels a bit like coming inside from a sandstorm. Suddenly, the world is so much more clear; his vision unhindered by the detritus of his environment.

He smears one of his fingers down over the smooth white of the helmet, dragging a line of his blood over the visor to mimic the scar underneath. Even though he isn't able to see the mark, it settles into armor like the familiarity of an old friend. Anakin inhales as the force of the sensation seeps into his bones. This is a face he knows now. Skywalker. The Brother. One cog in the Grand Army of the Republic. Part of General Obi-Wan Kenobi’s Two Twelfth.

“No,” he says again with the force of determination behind his words. “I did.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for stopping there! This chapter was getting to 12,000+ and it still wasn't done (ಥ﹏ಥ) That was best place!! Thankfully, I already have about 6,000 words of the next part written and I'm determined to finish it asap. 
> 
> Please let me know if you see any glaring errors as there is a lot of movement in this chapter. 
> 
> And check out the awesome art in chapter 1 by the amazing vulpesarctica! (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟAlso on Tumblr here: ✧http://vulpesarctica.tumblr.com/post/176772452297/hello-chaps-ive-been-away-for-a-hot-minute-i


	6. Chapter 6

_“No,” he says again with the force of determination behind his words. “I did.”_

Kenobi watches him with wide eyes, and Anakin can feel the Jedi’s pulse fluttering under his own skin. It’s odd though, that he doesn’t even think he’s doing this to save Kenobi’s life. Or even his own life, really. It’s something else. Like he is finally ready to take responsibility for his own actions. No hiding. No spice. Just him.

Realization spreads over Dooku’s face in a slow flood of furry. His lips twist and sneer, a red flush rising high in his cheeks, and his eyes narrowing to enraged slits. “You.”

Dooku's anger floods the room and Anakin’s stomach lurches in response. His eyes burn as he struggles to blink. The hatred chokes him, freezing his breath in his lungs.

“You!” Dooku yells again, swinging his saber towards Anakin, his eyes fixated on the line of blood. The blade crackles and snaps as it cuts through the air. “You took away my victory!”

Anakin takes a step back as the full force of Dooku’s hatred slams against him as if a wind storm had blown off the enormous transparisteel windows to whip around the office. The man’s short hair and robes remain unaffected but the wind lashes about, beating against the furniture and drapes with surprising strength in the gale. The decorative objects in various nooks fall and roll to the floor while light furniture pieces slide backwards and away from the man. Anakin raises a bloody arm to cover his face, a natural reaction despite his helmet,as dust and debris from the earlier fight swirl back up into the air.

Kenobi tries to struggle to his feet by hoisting himself up off the ground, but his limbs fail him and he crashes back down to the ruined carpet. “Anakin!” he yells over the howl of the wind.

Dooku takes a step towards him, and Anakin feels a tug on his legs as if he were being guided.

Anakin obeys his before he can think of another option. He scrambles through the hole in the office doors and takes off down the hall, running as fast as he can. He knows that Dooku will follow him. Anakin wants him to if only to lead him away from the Chancellor. From Kenobi.

Almost instantly, his augmented hearing picks up the steady pound of following footsteps and the sizzles of a drawn lightsaber. “Kark,” he curses to himself, his breath already coming in short gasps and his side burning. “Kark!”

“Skywalker!” Kenobi’s voice flares over his general comm. “What do you think you’re doing? You are injured.”

“Yeah, and you’re not?” Anakin pants. He changes course, headed down another wide, carpeted hallway. He sees a window up ahead. He don’t want to be boxed in at the center of the massive building. He’ll scale the wall if he has to.

Kenobi pauses before responding. “You’re injured.” He says again, although this time his tone is less accusatory. “You need to get off your feet.” He takes a breath. “The speeder bay is two levels below this one. Can you make it there?”

Anakin huffs, almost tripping over a discarded datatablet as he stumbles around a corner. Dooku’s presence looms behind him. “Down is better than up.”

“Find a service stairwell. Two levels down. Speeders are on the west side.”

Kenobi’s correct, of course. Once Anakin clears the stairs the level opens up into a giant pillared room with a carpet as long as a Star Destroyer. His helmet feeds him the cardinal directions and he’s off towards the flashes of sleek fairings.

He’s in luck: there’s a few speeders hovering on the platform, glimmering in the sun with their engines running and their doors flung open. The occupants must have arrived just as the air bombardment began and didn’t have time to do anything other than find shelter. He picks the first in the row: a shiny green model with a full transparisteel canopy and wide fins. It’s a newer, with custom seats and a dazzling dash.

Anakin barely has time to appreciate the interior, though, before he’s blasting off into air with the engine at max output. His helmet immediately adjusts the ocular functions to accommodate for the sudden blast of bright light as he shoots out of the bay and into the burning sky.

He doesn’t need to look back to feel Dooku hot on his tail having claimed the next speeder in the row for his own.

“General Kenobi,” he says, stalling for words. The cabin around him is made of high quality materials, and it muffles the roar of the engine to little more than a distant hum. The jarring quiet in direct contradiction to the rush of action a moment before. “I…”

He can hear his heart pounding in his ears. The buildings whip by in a blur of color. His fists are sweaty around the steering, his knuckles white, and his elbows and knees cramping up with tension. He grinds his teeth together, the tendons on his neck pulling tight. His stomach rolls, bile hot on the back of his throat.

Suddenly, the pain in his side is so unbearable that it brings tears to his eyes. He blinks them away, but his vision narrows to little more than a yellow haze and his head rolls on his shoulders. The speeder jerks violently as his concentration slips.

“Skywalker,” Kenobi says softly over the static in Anakin’s head. The comm crackles with the distortion from explosions in the upper atmosphere. “Feel. Don’t think. Let your instincts guide you. Let the Force guide you.”

Anakin blinks, dazed, and takes in one shuddering breath. He lets it go with a gasp and tries again.

“Yes,” Kenobi says, softer and patient. “Imagine that this is training simulation. Imagine that you’re in the pod next to mine. We’re practicing flight patterns. Just the two of us.”

The scene materializes in Anakin’s mind. His fist loosens around the throttle and the blood rushes back into his hand in a flood of heat. He can almost hear the hum of the servers as they whir and spin just outside of the pod. Inside, the air is cramped and only disturbed by the slight movements of Anakin’s body as he pilots. The familiar weight of his helmet presses down on his shoulders; Kenobi’s voice clear and crisp through his tightbeam.

“I see it,” he whispers. The wide bubble of the speeder’s cockpit morphs into the familiar hard lines of his starfighter and takes on the slightly grainy quality of the simulation holo screen.

He can still feel Dooku at his tail - a seething mass of anger and righteous furry - but he feels Kenobi more keenly. Their connection, which had dulled and faded over the last few cycles with neglect, blooms again in Anakin’s mind. He sucks in another deep breath.

The tension from Kenobi’s mind loosens along with the constriction of Anakin’s chest. “Yes,” Kenobi says, a low hum in Anakin’s ear. “That’s right.”

The yoke seems to twist under Anakin’s mind as his intentions carve a path through the skyline. He’s suddenly aware of the steady whirl of the engine and the neat flow of energy through the conduits and out through the tail. The dash crackles with the exchange of firing electrical connections that are so quick as to be imperceptible; but, Anakin knows them as if it were his own mind guiding the fuel systems and mapping sequences.

His wrist twists, sending the speeder into a sharp dive through lines of crisscrossing air traffic.

Kenobi voice clarifies through his consciousness like the first rays of a pale sun over an endless sea of sand and the illusion disappears. “Better?”

Anakin nods before he remembers to speak. For a moment, it had felt as if Kenobi had really been along his wing. “Yeah,” he croaks. The sound of his voice through the helmet sounds harsh in the plush interior of the speeder. “Thanks.”

“Of course,” Kenobi says, his voice still soft.

“You knew all along about... about...”

Kenobi sighs, the sound pained. “In a way. Yes, I knew.”

Anakin circles down and around a towering spire close enough to the windows that he can hear the pop of his own exhaust as he accelerates sharply before he slams the yoke backward and twist the throttle to send the speeder hurtling out into a thick lane of traffic. Horns blow past him, the colors of the other vehicles like a blur through the window of his cabin. Of course there is still commuter air traffic on Coruscant even though the planet is under attack.  Typical.

Anakin clears his throat and shakes his head. He doesn’t want to bring up the past. “Orders, sir?” He asks.

Kenobi focus sharpens through in Anakin’s awareness; his mind blooming like a desert storm. It shudders through Anakin’s mind with ferocious intensity. “I have an idea, but it will take some delay.” Kenobi sounds slightly breathless. “Can you keep him occupied?”

“I can, sir,” Anakin says, his resolve firm.

“Good. When I give the signal, pull back toward the Senate. I’ll take care of it from there.”

A chunk of burning rubble falls past the speeder with a deep roar. Anakin jerks aside, sending the speeder in a rolling tumble to avoid the massive piece. He watches, in the reflection of the transparisteel cabin, as it barrels into a nearby skyscraper with the punch of an asteroid.

“Yes, sir,” he mutters through gritted teeth. A deep ache flares through his chest as flames spread through the building like a plague. Each death feels like a prick of pain.

He’s suddenly aware again of the peril of the situation. He glances in the rear-view mirror at the pursuing speeder. Count Dooku’s looming presence abruptly feels like a weight dragging him down. Sick bubbles in Anakin’s stomach and it feels like a hand has wrapped around his throat. It squeezes, threatening and vile. He gasps, trying to catch his breath. Sweat gathers on his forehead, beading on his upper lip.

“Understood,” Kenobi says, starting Anakin back to awareness in the cab. “Be careful, Skywalker.”

Anakin nods. “I will.”

With a click, the connection breaks. Part of him wishes that Kenobi would keep it live, but he knows that it would only be a distraction to both of them. He shakes his head. “Kark, keep it together, Skywalker.”

He glances back at Dooku again.

“You’re good enough to fly Kenobi’s wing,” he says to himself. “So you’re good enough to keep this piece of bantha poodoo occupied.”

Anakin watches the speeder behind him as he pulls the yoke into a sharp climb. He spins around and through a series of walkways and floating landing docks. His intuition guiding his hands, coaching him through. With each sweep, he looses the tension in his shoulders and the hurt of his injuries begins to fall away. It's simple, while flying, to get lost in the motion of it.

Dooku struggles to keep up. His flight lines waver and he doesn't choose the best vertex to hit. He speed is inconsistent, and his time spent on the throttle decreases with every nauseating elevation change.

Anakin grins. “Not such a great pilot after all.”

“You.”

Anakin almost jumps in his seat at the great crackle of his speeder’s comm. A holo flares to life on his dashboard. “Give this farce of a chase up at once. You have nothing to gain by this pitiful display.” Dooku’s face leers at him, all blue and grainy. Anakin hates the sight of it.

“You think I don’t?” He retorts. Anger crawls up his spine and he suddenly feels hot with righteous frustration.. “You’ve ruined billions of lives with this war! You murdered General Jinn- General Kenobi’s master!”

“Please,” Dooku says with a sneer, cutting him off. “The galaxy is better off with the death of one insignificant Jedi zealot. Why didn’t Kenobi ever tell you about Jinn’s ridiculous penchant of sacrificing lives for the purpose of completing missions? He must have mentioned leaving Kenobi in a hostile warzone after he refused to allow civilians to starve. Disobeying direct orders.”

Anakin turns the speeder sideways to slide in between two tight towers. He tries to blink the sweat out of his eyes. His helmet doesn’t work properly without the rest of his suit. “He was important to the General. That’s all I care about.”

Dooku rolls his eyes. “Really, you aren’t even a clone and yet you suffer from this mindless loyalty. The Jedi Order wouldn’t care about your intentions. They're only interested in their own agenda. They have no care for the innocent bystanders caught up in their mess. They’re a symptom of the disease of the Republic. One that needs to be eradicated from this galaxy.”

“By invading peaceful planets and taking over?” Anakin snaps. “Destroying villages and people’s ways of life? I saw what you left behind on Dantooine. Those people never asked for your deliverance.”

“Do not speak of things you know nothing about, boy. Leave the politics to your betters.”

Anakin slams his fist down on the holo projector and the holo disappears from the display with a fizzle. “Kark,” he screams. His hand is split open and cramped with pain. Anakin jerks forward in his seat, slamming forward on the steering to dive down in into the skyline’s depths. “Kark him!” he yells again with tears pricking at his eyes. He hasn’t been so insulted since the morning he flipped the table at the Republic office on Tatooine when they called him a slog and told him to run back to his master.

“Skywalker?” Kenobi says over his tightbeam. “Are you alright?”

Anakin squeezes his eyes shut to clear his eyes just as long as he can. He's painfully aware of Dooku’s rotten presence on his tail. The other speeder had gained precious space on him while he was distracted and angry. Anakin can almost see Dooku’s face through the scant distance between their vehicles. “Kriff,” he murmurs to himself.

“Skywalker? Anakin?” Kenobi asks again, insistent.

“Yes, I… I'm fine. Your orders, sir,” Anakin says stumbling over his words. He comes back to himself slowly, and he feels suddenly ashamed at his anger.

“Understood,” the General says with some hesitance. “I'm in position. If you could be so kind as to bring the dear Count back to the Senate that would be most helpful.”

Anakin lets out his breath with a harsh sigh. “Yes, sir.”

He tugs on the steering, banking the speeder around in a tight turn around a tall spire, before pulling back and accelerating as soon as his nose was facing the optimal flight path. The speeder’s engine croaks under the sudden, rough treatment. It gurgles, bogged down for a moment before the intake valve sucks in another gulp of air and the engine jumps.

“Kark,” Anakin says under his breath. He wipes away hot tears from his face.

Anakin feels Kenobi’s flicker of concern under his own fluctuating emotions. Kenobi seems to hesitate before saying, “Skywalker...Anakin... When this is over… I’d...”

“Obi-Wan,” Anakin says, quietly. He hopes no one else is listening to their chatter. If it had already been bad enough to get Kenobi court-martialed - for him to give up his command - than what would these damning words lead to?

He’s reminded of his first sight of alien Dantooine from the LAAT/i from space. The awe that had come over him in that moment. The spectacular feeling of finding himself such an insignificant part of the universe. And then the fear that came along with it. How he thought about how incredibly lucky he was to even be in that situation. He feels the same way now: flying in a luxury speeder over an inner rim city the size of a planet. Rescuing the Chancellor himself from a Separatist invasion. The fear or what happens next. The fear of losing something that he’s only just had the opportunity to fully appreciate.

He hopes his mother would be proud of what he’s done.

Anakin smiles bitterly. Kenobi can’t see him. “It’s fine.”

He can feel the disjointed tug of Kenobi’s emotions; that he’s stuck between wanting to the let the subject drop and insisting that it’s too important to leave hanging. It feels like an itch on the bottom of his foot: his inability to sooth it frustrating.

Anakin cuts in before Kenobi has the opportunity to choose something he might regret later; reverting back to their assigned military roles. He forces the conversation back to the task at hand.  “I’m nearing the Senate Rotunda. What are your orders, General?”

There will be time for them to speak later. At least, Anakin hopes there will be.

The turbulent roll of Kenobi’s thoughts crystalize into something pointed and focused. “The Promenade,” he says, his tone of his voice back in to its usual authoritative confidence. “I’m sending the coordinates to your comm now.”

“Confirmed.” Anakin changes his route slightly to accommodate the new location, his head’s up display tells him the best route but he barely glances at it. He knows where to go; Kenobi’s presence burns like beacon home in the midst of a sandstorm. “En route. ETA four minutes.”

“Be prepared for evasive maneuvers upon arrival. Kenobi out.”

The connection closes with a wimpy fizzle and Anakin grits his teeth. “Focused. Precise. Decisive,” he says, repeating the words he’d studied for his GAR technician interview. “Focused.”

The Senate building rears up in his sights; its vast landing pad still dotted with various ships despite the battle. A few giant pieces of debris lay smashed on the ground, burning and belching out black smoke. Kenobi’s coordinates take him closer to the Rotunda itself and near to the deserted location of the Chancellor’s speech for Jinn's memorial service. As he gets closer, he can see the ruined banners blowing in the breeze and the scorch marks of blaster bolts on the shining plaza floor.

He can’t see any soldiers or any signs of a strategy. But he trust Kenobi. Trusts his brothers to figure it out. He has to since -

Dooku has the speeder with the more powerful engine. Earlier, Anakin had been able outmaneuver him in the tight quarters of skyscrapers and air traffic. But now that they’ve come into the wide open expanse of the promenade, Dooku’s speed has carried him back up to Anakin’s tail.

The Separatist slams his speeder in to the back of Anakin’s with sickening scrape of durasteel. The speeder groans under the pressure, slamming Anakin forward in his seat. He neglected to fasten his restraints when he first sat down and he pays for it dearly as his head smashes into the console. Despite the helmet, the impact smarts with pain and he can feel the slow trickle of blood down his face. He’s disoriented, still recovering from a concussion. The speeder rolls to the side, swerving out of his original flight path and heading directly towards the plaza floor.

Kenobi’s voice crackles through his com in an eerie re-creation of their battle over Onderon. “Skywalker, pull up! You’re coming in too hot!”

Anakin fumbles for the steering, his eyes hazy with sweat and new blood. His fingers cramp up, the pain in his head blinding. The yoke resists as he yanks on it, the steering compromised in the collision.

“Anakin!”

Dooku slams into him again from behind sending Anakin forward so fast that his face hits the transparisteel cockpit cover. He cries out, struggling to get the speeder back under control as it bucks under the harsh abuse.

He tries to wipe at his eyes as no amount of external vision arrays with help clear his eyes, and ends of yanking off the helmet and throwing it to the side. Reaching up, Anakin smears his face with blood from his nose in a desperate attempt to clean his eyes.

Something snaps from the engine bay behind him sending a shockwave through the small speeder followed by the black smoke of an electrical fire. It clogs the canopy instantly, burning in Anakin’s exposed mouth and eyes like he’s in the midst of the sand storm. He coughs, dragging in one gulp of poisoned air as an innate response to find more oxygen. The dash alights with the snap and pop of exploding transistors. It's a civilian vessel, after all, and not meant for a mid-flight collision.

“Anakin!” Kenobi calls out. His voice sounds small and far away from the shell of Anakin’s abandoned helmet. “Please answer.” He pauses a moment and then his voice cracks on his next sentence. His emotions tremble up Anakin’s spine like shaky fingers. “If you can - Force, Anakin, please - If you can hear me, just keep steady. Just land. The Red Guard is-”

Anakin grabs at the steering again, his hands slipping at first before he finds a good grip. His lungs rebel, his chest constricting in the cloud of smoke. The haze makes it difficult to to see; all he can glimpse is the bright colors of waving flags as he shoots through the main plaza. He’s lower than he thought.

His senses swim, disoriented and confused. He can’t tell if Dooku is right behind him anymore.

Suddenly, in a surge of emotion, Kenobi’s feelings under Anakin’s skin boil for an agonizing moment of anticipation right before the loud bang of an explosion resonates behind him. The blast shoves his speeder forward and it’s nose skips off the stone of the plaza.

He yanks up on the steering, engaging the rear thrusters to try and stabilize the speeder.

Another explosion echoes behind him, and then another. Something, probably metal, screams as it rips apart. A piece slams into Anakin’s speeder throwing him off course again. His speeder careens sideways, the edge of it catching on the ground and flipping him over. His entire body slams into the transparisteel cover as it rolls. An agonizing wave of pain makes his vision turn yellow and then dark for a moment as his injured ribs crack again.

The speeder rolls again, flipping briefly into the air, before it slides across the plaza. The metal grinds against the floor, squealing and throwing out sparks as it goes. It comes to a wavering stop on its side, the engine still smoking and the the electrical system still throwing off sparks, with Anakin curled up in a ball inside.

He tries to gulp in another breath but the black smoke stings his lungs. Every movement of his chest a strain to maintain. Blindly, he reaches out to find the canopy release, his fingers fumbling in the haze.

His heart pounds in his chest. He tries to feel for Kenobi.

The radio in his helmet crackles. “...there? Anakin…”

Anakin feels around again for the release, coughing and curling at the pain. He finds the tiny nob and twists. The canopy behind him clicks as the clip disengages and it falls open to let a tiny gap of fresh air stream into the speeder.

Using his back, he pushes at the ruined hatch, straining to open it. It doesn’t budge; the twisted metal too strong against his weakened state.

He pushes again, desperate to get out. Fear bubbles up in his cut as his stomach clenches and rebels. He gags under the pressure.

All of a sudden, the hatch falls away and he tumbles out. Hands grip his upper arms and back, trying to steady him as he’s pulled away from the wreckage. He starts coughing, his body immediately trying to take in the fresh air, and his legs sag underneath the weight of his body.

He hears Brothers speaking around him asking for fire control and emergency medical attention. One of them helps him settle onto the cool stone of the plaza on his back while he catches his breath.

He gasps, trying to form words over the ache in his throat form the smoke. “Dooku... What...?” He rasps. His thought swim around in his head, slippery and elusive. He covers his eyes with the palms of his hands trying to push on the pain.

“Shot him down, trooper,” one of the clones says. “Should give General Jinn some peace in the afterlife that we used his own memorial cannons to seal the deal.”

Anakin tilts his head at the familiar voice. “Coast?” He questions, clutching at his side. The cuts in his arms and legs start to ache again. The Clone’s stripes on his helmet blur and wave as Anakin’s vision swims again. He turns to the side as his stomach clenches again. Choking and coughing, he vomits on the pavement next to him, gasping for breath.

“Slow down, trooper,” Coast says from behind him. He lays a gentle hand on Anakin’s back as his body heaves. “Steady now. It's over. You can relax.”

Anakin squeezes his eyes shut and sags backwards. His stomach clenches again, but nothing crawls up his throat this time. He sucks in a huge shuddering breath.

“That’s right,” Coast says, still gentle. “You did great work out there, Brother. The General’ll be proud.”

The footfalls of more boots echo off the pavement just as the whirring propulsors of an LAAT/i grow closer and closer. The remains of Anakin’s speeder crackle and pop behind him.

“General Kenobi,” Anakin rasps, his throat raw. “Where is he?”

“I’m here.”

Coast steps back and Anakin twists around to see Kenobi behind him, his rib aching with the effort. Kenobi takes one hesitant step forward.

“Obi-wan,” Anakin croaks. He gives the other man a sideways smile. “You look like shit.”

In barely more than a rustle of fabric, Kenobi is kneeling in front of Anakin and pressing their foreheads together. His hands cradle Anakin’s face; his feverish emotions running hot under Anakin’s skin. “I thought I’d lost you,” he whispers. His voice trembles. “I thought that I’d sent you to your death.”

Anakin reaches up to touch Kenobi’s face; his body shaking with the effort. He strokes his thumb across Kenobi’s cheek and down over his beard, reveling in the feel of him. “Even if you did, it would have been the right thing. You’re my commanding officer. It’s my duty-” He cuts himself off. “I would have done it anyways. Even if I thought I wouldn’t make it. I had to get him away from the Chancellor. Away from you.”

Kenobi sighs, his shoulders drooping. He really does look awful. His robes are stained with blood and dirt, and there is a cut on his forehead that dibbles blood into a dried mess on his face. The lightsaber burn on his chest is red and blistered. Dead and blackened bits of flesh frame the cut in a grotesque picture.

Anakin looks back up at Kenobi’s face. “I couldn’t let that happen. I could never let that happen.”

Coast clears his throat next to them. “General, the Jedi Council is arriving.” Then, he says much louder, over the sound of approaching footsteps, “Help me get him to his feet, sir.”

Kenobi’s face falls into its blank mask. “Yes, of course,” he says. “Thank you, Coast.”

Coach grasps one of Anakin’s arms while Kenobi takes the other. In one smooth motion, they pull him to his feet. Kenobi lingers for a moment longer, his finger’s tightening around Anakin’s bare elbow, before stepping forward.

Despite the fact that Anakin has known and trained with Kenobi for many cycles, the group of approaching Jedi make him shrink back. He shifts away from his pile of sick at his feet, his arm curling around his waist.

He suddenly realizes that he's never seen another Jedi before. Their robes flutter around them as they walk, and their lightsabers gleam at their waists in a start reminder of their abilities. Anakin doesn’t feel much from them. Unlike Kenobi, who is open to Anakin as if his skin is merely an illusion, the Jedi Masters feel like the surface of the desert when the wind comes to a stop. Smooth, with a vast expanse that seems to never end.

“Masters,” Kenobi says politely. He bows, his hands tucking into his sleeves.

“Knight Kenobi,” says one of the group. He’s tall, with dark skin and a bald head. He nods at Kenobi with a tight face. The others follow suit.

Coming up behind the group, a few lines of clone troopers with green markings stand at attention. Anakin’s eyes glance down to the rifles in their hands.

If Kenobi is anxious at their presence, his face doesn’t show it.

“We’ve been informed that Count Dooku has been eliminated,” says the dark Jedi.

More movement rustles around them at a door at the end of the plaza opens and people start to timidly filter out. They’re civilians, dressed in somber dark clothes. They creep forward, looking between the remains of Anakin’s speeder and the group of Jedi Masters with equal expressions of awe until they're fully surrounded.

Anakin hadn’t realized he’d crashed so close to the Senate building. He glances up at the balcony looming over them where the Chancellor had been giving his speech, the adrenaline crash making the situation feel surreal.

“Yes,” Kenobi responds, his voice tight. “He has been.” Anakin feels his reluctance to add any more detail. Is he still being court-martialed?

A choking ball of fearful anticipation wells up in Anakin’s throat as the Jedi’s gaze turns to him with disquieting intensity. “CT-1217, I presume.” The other Jedi turn to look at him as well, their eyes just as accessing.

Kenobi startles at that, his face turning dark. He steps closer to Anakin, almost shielding him from the Jedis’ gaze. “CT-1217 from Kamino is dead,” he says with harsh scrape to his voice.

Anakin steps forward, his mouth open to defend himself. “No, that’s not-”

His weak explanation is cut off by the sound of “Sir!” from among the gathering crowd. The Jedi’s attention whips around just as Commander Cody pushes his way out from behind two Weequay businessmen.

Kenobi’s face brightens immediately. “Cody,” he says softly as the clone stops to salute him. “It’s good to see you.”

Cody taps his helmet twice, his happiness apparent. “You as well, sir.” He holds up the shining case of a lightsaber, his body all but vibrating with excitement, and holds it out for Kenobi to take. “General Dooku’s lightsaber.”

The crowd gasps, almost as one, as exclamations of surprise and fear ripple throughout.

Glancing down at the weapon, Kenobi shakes his head. “I believe that the Jedi Council will be adopting my command for the time being.” He looks past Cody at the Jedi beyond. “Master Windu. The lightsaber of Sith Lord, Yan Dooku.”

Cody’s posture stiffens. Anakin looks over at the dark skinned Jedi in surprise; he knows that name.

“Where is he?” Someone cries out from the crowd, breaking the odd atmoshpere. A few people step backwards, fumbling over each other in their haste to move, as Palpatine forces his way through the throng. His robes are torn and ripped, his hair askew around his ears. “This boy is supposed to be a prisoner! A infiltrator in the midst of the Grand Army of the Republic! Stand aside, that creature’s not worth protecting.”

“Senator Palpatine,” Windu says, his hand raised in supplication, “This isn’t-”

Kenobi cuts him off, his fists balled in anger. It simmers under his skin and burns against Anakin’s face as if he were a sun all his own. “I will not allow you to speak of him in such a manner. He has been instrumental in saving the Chancellors life and restoring-”

Palpatine pushes past the last of the crowd and stomps directly up to Kenobi, his face red with rage. “He’s a slave. He’ll never be worth anything!”

Cody takes a step back, unsure how to intervene as Kenobi's patience evaporates. “Listen, you pompous-”

“That is enough!”

The crowd grows instantly silent. They part again, this time to the sight of the Chancellor surrounded by the red guards of the Senate. Any clues of his abduction have already been wiped away. His robes are clean and pressed, his features composed similarly. Trapper and Wooley trail behind him, their helmets covering their faces.  Up close, he still looks like a man above men just like he had standing on the high balcony.

Anakin shrinks back, the situation out of his control.

“Chancellor,” greets Windu. He bows at the waist and the other Jedi hasten to follow. “I am glad to see you unharmed. The Separatist Fleet is in disarray both in orbit and on the ground. Our ships are continuing to sweep the city for rogue fighters and we have multiple divisions combing the Senate Rotunda and the surrounding blocks for stray droids.”

The Chancellor nods in affirmation. “And emergency measures?”

“On-shore garrisons have been dispatched to help with emergency evacuations and structural damage. General Unduli assures me that they are working steadily to bring medical attention to those in need,” says a different Jedi. This one is Nautolan with light green skin and wide, dark eyes. He’s smiling though, his face contrasting with the seriousness of his words.

Looking towards the vague trail of smoke in the distance, out over the heads of the surrounding people, the Chancellor's face grows grim. “And what exactly of Count Dooku?”

Windu closes his eyes and bows his head briefly. “Dead. Destroyed by the efforts of-”

“Your Excellency, Masters,” Kenobi starts, interrupting Windu, “I can explain-”

The Chancellor ignores him, looking towards Cody’s still form and the prize in his hand. “Count Dooku’s lightsaber, please.”

Cody doesn’t hesitate and dutifully hands him the saber. He glances at Kenobi as he bows and steps away; his hands balled into fists. Anakin mirrors his apprehension.

The Chancellor examines the weapon with a somber eye, turning it over slowly in his hands. He looks remorseful, his face displaying how the years of war have taken their toll.

Palpatine watches him, wringing his hands. “Chancellor. I think-”

The Chancellor’s features’ harden in an instant and his attention springs to Anakin’s ragged form, completely ignoring the Senator’s inappropriate outburst. “I’ve heard a lot about you, Anakin Skywalker.” The Chancellor steps towards him, his elegant robes rustling in the light wind. His face is grave as he bares the mantle of responsibility. “Stole a Clone’s armor.”

Anakin feels Kenobi’s distress. It slides down his spine, hopeless and fearful. His knees shake and he can no longer hold himself up. He slides to the floor, his arms tightening around his ribs. He’s suddenly very aware of the lightsaber in the Chancellor’s hands.

The Chancellor continues without mercy. “Ran away from your owner. Impersonated a soldier. Deceived your commanding officer and dishonored the Grand Army.”

Anakin squeezes his eyes shut, too humiliated to hear the rest.

“Chancellor,” Kenobi says, desperation coloring his voice.  “Please.”

“Knight Kenobi. Stop this display at once,” one of the Jedi admonishes.

“And,” the Chancellor says, his voice escalating over Kenobi’s plea. “You have saved us all.”

Someone in the crowd gasps, and Anakin feels the surprise on his own face. He glances up at the Chancellor. He's smiling, the soft joy of it transforming his face.

Anakin looks at Kenobi for support, horribly confused. His face is white and his tension pops like a bubble under Anakin’s skin. Their eyes meet over the expanse of smooth marble and Kenobi takes a step towards him before faltering.

“But it wasn’t- Obi-Wan-” Anakin tries to say. “I didn’t actually do-”

“Chancellor!” Palpatine, pleads, his voice high with surprise. “You cannot possibly mean that!”

The Chancellor looks un-moved, his face returning to it's stoic mask. He steps closer to Anakin and holds out his hand. “There is no need for such formality. We are all in your debt.”

Anakin stares at the hand for a moment, his thoughts in a whirl. He can hear the hushed whispers of the crowd, and his face grows red with heat. What would his mother say if she could see him now? He hopes that she would be proud of him. 

With hesitance, he takes the Chancellor's hand and hauls himself to his feet. The Chancellor’s strong grip assists him, and he doesn’t let go until Anakin is stable.

Instantly, the crowd erupts into cheers, hollering and clapping with their joy like a palpable wave of emotion. The motion ripples through the onlookers as they whisper to each other, passing the message back and clapping anew at the story. They’re smiling despite their haggard appearance, and looking at Anakin with gratitude and a new hope.

Anakin casts his eyes down under the attention to stare at his borrowed shoes. He’s filthy; covered in blood and ash. His clothes are all but dirty rags on his shoulders, cut up by glass and rubble in the Chancellor’s office. He blinks as his vision swims with tears, and he has to bite his lip to keep them at bay.

“Senator Palpatine,” says the Chancellor as the crowd settles, “please see to it that this soldier is treated with all the respect of a full citizen of the Republic.”

Palpatine’s face explodes into a furious shade of red. “What?” he shouts. “But there are laws, Chancellor! This is a slave. He must be returned to his master.”

A few members of the crowd, close enough to hear, gasp. Their eyes volley back and forth between Palpatine and Anakin. One woman’s hands fly to her mouth, shocked. The crowd ripples again as surprised gasps of horror and confusion spread from person to person.

Anakin clenches his jaw.

The Jedi look between themselves, seemingly unsure of how to address the situation. Kenobi’s hand strays to his lightsaber, his face set in a blank line.

“Enough!” The Chancellor says again, just voice firm. The crowd grows silent. Their eyes turn to him. Palpatine flinches, sneering, and shrinks back into the folds of his ruined robes.

The Chancellor turns to Anakin. “Let him speak.”

All eyes turn to Anakin. He can feel the heavy gaze of the Jedi on his back. He twists the hem of his hospital shirt in his fist. He opens his mouth without thinking. “With all due respect, Chancellor, I think I’ve been away from home long enough.”

As soon as the words fall, he knows it's the right decision. He needs to see his mother; to let her know that he’s still alive and that he’s done something with his sorry existence. Even just the thought of seeing her weathered face makes him smile.

He’ll even be glad to see C-3P0, in a way. He’s missed the cranking of his servo motors and the snotty tone of his mechanical voice.

What will Cliegg Lars think, he wonders, of a slave who disobeys his orders and runs away from his responsibilities? Would it be better to return of his own will or in the chains of the Republic like planned? Anakin doesn’t know but he isn’t afraid. He could never regret his choices. Not when he’s finally had the chance to see other words. To feel the heft of a starship throttle under his hand. Not when he’s met the best the galaxy has to offer.

“Then take this,” the Chancellor says, pulling off his only ring and handing it to Anakin. It’s thick and sturdy, engraved with the mark of the Office of the Chancellor.  “So your family will know what you have done for me.

“And this.” He holds out Dooku’s lightsaber. “So the galaxy will know what you have done for the Republic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh god its almost done!! Once again, this was super plot-y we'll have more feels next time!!
> 
> A reminder: Palpatine is not the Chancellor in this story. He is only a senator. I did not give this Chancellor a name. (It could be Vallorum but that would run against cannon - before Palpatine took office, the Chancellor was limited to 2 four-year terms. So, if he were Chancellor when Anakin was eight, he would not have been in office quite long enough for Anakin to be 20/22 or so (as he is in this story).) So, the Chancellor remains unnamed. Honestly though, I was picturing Vallorum in my head. Unfortunately that made this scene come out to be rather white-man centered. Ugh sorry. I should have included more species!!

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Day 3 of the 2017 Obikin Week Challenge. As always, please feel free to leave constructive criticism. 
> 
> http://selcier.tumblr.com/


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